


What Goes Unsaid

by duplicity, Minryll



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Major Illness, Mystery, POV Tom Riddle, Slow Romance, can harry warm his frozen heart?, only time will tell, same age au, the story is angsty don't let my levity fool you, this is corny but i think it's funny, tom is always cold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minryll/pseuds/Minryll
Summary: Tom Riddle was born destined for death. His soul has always been numb, empty,cold.Everything he does, he does to survive. Everyone he surrounds himself with is a means to an end.Even his soulmate, Harry Potter, will become another casualty, will become collateral damage in Tom's quest to save the only person who matters: himself.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 134
Kudos: 260
Collections: Tomarry Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. The Eternal Winter

**Author's Note:**

> written for the tomarry reverse big bang 2020. thank you dearly to the lovely admin for hosting this!
> 
> and of course a huge thank you to my wonderful partner, [Minryll,](https://minryll.tumblr.com/) for going above and beyond with art for this story. <3 <3
> 
> title taken from the song 'hurt' by gabrielle aplin. excellent song with excellent vibes.

* * *

The boy was born into silence in the dead of winter, pulled from the warmth of his mother’s body and into the horrid chill of a dark, candle-lit room.

The young woman on the bed was a ghastly shade of white. The birth of her son had drained what little colour she possessed from her face, leaving her with sunken cheeks and a waxen complexion. 

Perhaps another time she could have been beautiful; if the stars had aligned to provide her face with fairness and her hair with glossy sheen. But it was difficult to imagine—the horror, the ugliness of this moment would be forever burned into the eyes of the matron who served witness to it, supplanting any fantasies of what could have been.

The matron cradled the newborn boy in his swaddle of woollen blankets, panic-stricken and fearful for the life of the young girl lying prone on the cot. The baby did not wail like most newborns, and his pale skin was several degrees colder than was normal for a living being. If the child was stillborn, the girl’s suffering would have been for naught.

The matron’s wizened, calloused fingers sought for a pulse, for the beating of that tiny heart. But Tom was cold and still, not at all a healthy child, and if he did not speak, did not breathe very soon, he would die. The matron pushed and prodded at the child’s chest, an attempt to instill life and produce sound. 

“Can I see him?” The voice, frail and hardly stronger than the flickering candle flame by her side, rasped something awful. “Can I see Tom?”

The matron hesitated for a fraction of a second. The mother was not long for this world, the matron thought, and it would not do for the girl to see her child was headed for the same fate.

The boy, the child in the matron’s arms, made an odd snuffling sound, tiny hands twitching weakly, surprising the matron from her stupor. His mother’s voice had stirred him to life.

Perhaps the mother would do him some good. The matron deposited the boy into his mother’s embrace, careful to stay close lest the infant slip from the girl’s grasp.

When she spoke, her voice was rough, stuttering, thick with weariness. Fading fast. “He’s so handsome, isn’t he? Just like his father.” 

The father’s name had been bestowed upon the pale, round-faced infant who remained so quiet, so motionless, that the matron wondered if he was mute. Unnaturally quiet for a baby. 

The girl rocked her child, mumbling soft nonsense until her throat failed her. The rocking continued, slower and slower yet, until that, too, came to an end.

Still, the child did not cry. He did blink his large eyes as the matron pulled him from his mother’s weakening arms. Just over the boy’s shoulder, the mother’s life was rapidly slipping from this world and into the next.

The matron murmured a quiet prayer and drew nearer so as to ensure the girl was not alone in her final moments.

Merope Gaunt gave her last breath into the stale air of Wool’s Orphanage, safe in the knowledge that her precious son would be cared for. Her life for her son’s was, in her mind, the fairest of trades. Her strength, her love, her _magic,_ all of it bestowed upon her child.

No sooner had she departed did Tom Riddle begin to cry, his voice wailing into the night for the first time since his birth. 

The matron cradled him close, rocking him. He did not soothe easily, and so she adjusted her hold, her hand cupping the back of his head. The boy’s skin was damp and cold. Concerned for his well being, she wrapped the boy in another blanket and moved to the fireplace to warm him.

As the hour hand struck midnight, signifying the arrival of the new year, Tom fell silent. His eyes opened and fixated anxiously on the bright flames, on the vibrant, dancing colours of the roaring fire. The matron touched her withered fingers to his cheek. He did not feel any warmer. She would have to be patient.

So they sat together, old woman and young boy, until dawn rose over the orphanage. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the high windows, covering Tom's face in a delicate, ethereal glow. 

The world around them was waking, stretching limbs and cracking bones.

In the arms of the matron, Tom’s body remained cold.

* * *

To Tom, life did not make sense.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not fit himself into the world he lived in. There were many attributes of his that were _strange_ and _odd,_ but even so, there was no explanation—worldly or otherworldly—behind the frosty chill that had burrowed itself deep inside him, sidling next to the space where his heart ought to reside.

The world was warm, but he was very, very cold.

According to Mrs. Cole, he had always been a pale child. His skin was fair, waxen, cold to the touch. His eyes were dark, the pupils scarcely visible amidst the near-black of his irises. The matron at Wool’s who had witnessed his birth—dead now, not that Tom remembered her—had mistaken him for a stillborn. 

Tom did not like this. He did not appreciate being informed that he had been born _weak,_ not when his life was already difficult. There was a frostiness that followed him around, clinging to him like a shadowy monster, cold as ice where its claws were tightly dug into his chest.

Needless to say, Tom preferred summers to winters.

In the sweltering London heat, the other children would sit nearby, the better to enjoy whatever _freakishness_ he possessed that cooled the air around him. As though he was a boy molded from ice rather than from flesh. But it was company, even if it was reluctant company, and it was preferable to sideways glances and judgemental finger pointing. Tom learned to put up with it if only because they would dislike him more for refusing to help.

During winter, though, Tom suffered.

Any number of threadbare cotton blankets did nothing to help him. Sitting by the fire was his only solace, the only comfort he had, and when the children were ordered to bed, it was all Tom could do not to cry.

For in his room, in the darkness and the quiet, the monster tucked behind his ribs would _feast._

Tom did not know what warmth felt like, and so he could only strive to imagine the pleasant comfort of _not cold_ he experienced during humid summer months. He could curl on his side, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking, eyes closed, jaw pressed shut to avoid chattering his teeth too hard. Tom knew from experience that if it got too bad, he might bite his tongue by accident, and the pain of that on top of the cold made the cold unbearably worse.

Mrs. Cole often told him how his mother had died for him, how God’s providence had delivered him safely into this world despite his ill health. Tom could not thank his mother for this existence of suffering, for leaving him here, alone, lacking all the things that every other decent boy his age had. Parents. A real home. Items that were his own and not shared with others.

Yet Tom could not _hate_ his mother, either.

His monster liked it when he hated things. It liked the cold anger that Tom fought hard to keep below the surface.

If Billy Stubbs shoved him into a wall, Tom would not lash out. He would not allow the anger to cool his veins and slow the steady pulse of his heart. His lungs would expand, full of frosty air, his limbs numb and his mind blank as he _pushed_ outwards in an attempt to force even a fraction of his suffering upon the world around him.

When Tom did let his emotions get the better of him, there were some benefits—namely, peculiar occurrences in his favour that he could not explain, neither to himself nor to the orphanage staff. However, these benefits also had severe consequences.

While the pleasure of tripping Billy Stubbs flat on his face felt glorious in the moment, that feeling did not last. The numbness of joy was temporary, eventually replaced by a gasping bitterness that scraped Tom’s throat raw and left his body aching—the toll extracted by the darkness that lurked inside of him, insidious and profane.

And so Tom had to be careful. Whatever deal with the devil his mother had made to permit her son such unconventional abilities, it would not do for Tom’s strangeness to be publicized, and it certainly would not do for Tom to give too much of himself over to this curse, lest he end up like his mother. 

Dying, dying, dead. Lost to the illness that Tom now carried in his veins, inherited by blood. 

Life did not make sense, but Tom could make enough sense of himself to know that he was not like other children. That he would _never_ be like other children.

Tom’s perception of himself solidified on this very fact: he was not normal. He would have to fight tooth and nail for recognition. He would have to work twice as hard to overcome his physical weaknesses.

When Albus Dumbledore informed him of his place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Tom was not fool enough to believe magic would fix all of his problems. 

They shook hands; Professor Dumbledore’s hand was warm and Tom’s was cold. Professor Dumbledore stared oddly at him for a long moment, then went on to introduce concepts such as _magic_ and _soulmates._

Tom listened with rapt attention, unable to squash his hopes just yet. Magic existed. Magic was real. Tom had always been destined for a higher calling. Here was the proof!

But even with magic—

Professor Dumbledore lit the wardrobe on fire, the wood flaming with bright hues of red and gold. Tom was entranced.

Was magical fire different from non-magical fire? If Tom was to walk into those flames would he at last feel _warmth?_

Tom did not dare ask. He did not trust Professor Dumbledore with his secret. Their handshake was enough to remind him of the _otherness_ that separated him from the rest. Perhaps magic could help him. Perhaps not. But Tom did not trust Dumbledore, did not trust the man to help him.

Discovering his status as a wizard could only confirm for Tom what he had already accepted:

There was something very, very wrong with Tom Riddle.

* * *

Tom was good at hiding things. He had to be, at Wool’s, to keep hold of his possessions. 

More importantly, Tom was practiced at hiding himself. He was practiced at blending into the shadows of crowded London streets, at mimicking the unhurried walk of a child on an errand for his mother. He knew when it was valuable to be seen and when it was valuable to be ignored.

In Slytherin house, his knowledge and skills were a blessing. Tom was evasive about his personal life. He wore gloves and avoided touching hands where he could. If not, then he would blame the temperature of his skin on the cool autumnal air or the damp chill of the dungeons. 

Some called him _Mudblood,_ and though Tom did not know exactly what that meant, he could guess, and he was quick to deny any such insults levelled at him. The degrading tone of the word set his nerves on edge, his heart hissing and spitting like a skittish alley cat with its back up against a wall. Tom did not _want_ to be different, to be freakish. Here, at least, he was determined to fit in as much as possible.

Aside from the hostile views of his house, it was established very quickly that Tom Riddle was brilliant, if a bit peculiar. Tom learned new spells easily and absorbed information like a sponge. Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin, took a liking to Tom quickly, too—a blatant favouritism that Tom hoped to twist to his own advantage.

But for all his cleverness, Tom was only a boy, a young one at that, and there were some parts of a person that could not be hidden away, no matter how hard he tried.

It was three weeks into the school year when Tom was frog-marched down to the Hospital Wing by a concerned Professor Merrythought.

Tom insisted he was fine, attempting to maintain a hold on his calm exterior despite his burgeoning fear and panic. He was terrified that he would be cast out of Hogwarts—the only place where he had ever felt he belonged—before he had even begun to set his roots down.

The nurse directed him to the bed, stripped him of his robes so he was clad only in shirt and trousers, and set about casting spells on him. Tom protested—this was being done without his consent, and he could not afford to pay for anything—but these concerns were dismissed by both the nurse and his professor. Reassurances that he would be looked after, free of charge, were spoken repeatedly until Tom was forced to comply.

Tom sat impatiently through the rest, embarrassed and afraid and almost-not-quite _angry._ Not quite angry. Here would be the most dangerous place for that. This was the most dangerous time to lose control of himself, under the discerning eye of the school nurse. So he held his temper. Fear of what he might do by accident if pushed to his limits far surpassed his fear of being examined.

The spells went on for some time, and then Tom was told to change into pyjamas—his own were brought to him by a House-Elf, a tiny type of creature that Tom had never seen until now—and relax while they waited.

They were waiting for a Healer.

Tom’s mind made the automatic association of ‘healer’ with ‘ _doctor’,_ and with that association came memories of threats delivered upon him at Wool’s. Threats of being shipped off to a place for mad people. 

A tremor ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the chill nipping at his insides. Tom lay down on the bed, eyes closed, knowing that he ought to be spending this time preparing his arguments. Why he ought to be allowed to stay at Hogwarts. 

Tom could perform just as well as any other student. He would perform _better_ than any other student, if only he was given the chance to do so. If only they would give him the opportunity to prove himself, he could do anything. He would be unstoppable.

Some time later, perhaps hours and hours later, Tom was woken up. He could not remember having fallen asleep, which made him uneasy, and this unease worsened as he gazed up into an unfamiliar, smiling face.

The face above him belonged to a bland-looking, middle-aged man with a receding hairline. “Tom? How are you feeling? My name is Healer Selwyn.”

Tom was _not_ feeling things correctly. That was part of the problem. Tom sat up and cast his consciousness through all his body parts, a checkover of himself that he was used to doing. He still felt cold and uncomfortable, but he was well-used to _those_ feelings.

So Tom said, “Fine.” He winced at the hoarseness of his own voice and coughed once to clear it. “I’m fine,” he repeated calmly, unwilling to give any sign of weakness until he was further informed on the situation.

Healer Selwyn’s face remained pleasant, friendly. “I’ve just given you a bit of check up, Tom. Does anything hurt? Or feel uncomfortable? Feel free to take your time answering.”

Tom deliberately paused so as to maintain the appearance of having taken the question seriously. “I’m fine,” Tom said. “I don’t feel anything hurting.”

Just behind Healer Selwyn, a number of other people were hovering. The school nurse and Professor Merrythought and Professor Slughorn. And Headmaster Dippet, shockingly enough.

Healer Selwyn sat down. Tom hadn’t realized there was a chair nearby. An awful dread began to pour into him as he took in the Healer’s expression—still too _calm,_ too understanding. Too pitying.

“Tom,” said Healer Selwyn. “There is something I need to tell you, and I need you to know that myself, and the staff here at Hogwarts, are here to support you. There are potions we can give you to help manage the symptoms, to help make this as painless for you as possible. You are not alone.”

The man reached out and placed his large, calloused hand atop Tom’s smaller one. Tom felt rather than saw the flinch from the physical contact. The flinch from the abnormal cold of Tom’s skin. If Tom could have, he would have pulled his hand away. 

As it was, all Tom felt was terribly, horribly numb.

* * *

Tom stayed at Hogwarts. In his spare time, he did research. The Hogwarts library was one of the most extensive collections in Europe, according to Professor Slughorn. Tom would find a solution to his illness, or so help him, he would create his own. His singular focus helped, at any rate, to stave off the crisp, autumnal air as they inched towards winter.

If Tom could find a cure to death, all his problems would go away.

If he could become immortal, then nothing could harm him, nothing could touch him. His soul would remain whole and tethered to the Earth.

Tom worked hard all term long. His professors cooed over him like he was a newborn offering its first words. Tom hated them for it. Though his talents were impressive, it was not only praise he saw in their eyes. Their first reaction would _always_ be pity, and he could not stomach that.

Tom turned twelve, then thirteen, then _fourteen,_ and he grew no closer to an answer. He had read books that would make lesser men sick with revulsion, had learned rituals that would curse the soul to eternal damnation. But Tom was not foolish enough to believe in God and an afterlife. He had little room left for faith in his life, limited as his time was. 

Summers at Wool’s became a form of torture in their own way—he could not bring himself to enjoy the warm weather. Every second he spent in that blasted orphanage was a second of his life wasted. Knowing that fact soured his perception of Wool’s further. It was a rubbish place. He hated it. And he could let himself hate it, in private, like it was a secret, so long as he kept himself controlled. 

Tom hated a great deal of things when there was no one around to observe him.

When he was alone, when he was safe, he could slide into his emotions, into the anger that felt like the cold press of a flat blade against his chest crushing down on his lungs until his ribs were on the verge of splintering. Tom was not in control of his life, but he was in control of himself.

* * *

Tom turned fifteen and watched as his classmates turned their attention to romance.

Many students were rapidly approaching the start of their magical maturity—the point at which their power would accelerate, propelling them towards their prime years. Propelling them towards their soulmates.

Good cheer infested itself amongst his housemates as their joy expanded, jumping from one person to another like a particularly virulent cold. Shy glances and hesitant touches, blinding smiles and sappy terms of endearment. A blistering hope that someday the current object of their infatuations would reveal themselves to be a true soulbond. Desire for an ecstatic merging of two selves’ magic into one.

The sight of it invoked disgust within him. Others were lazy and stupid, to allow themselves to be so easily distracted from their goals. To allow their weaknesses to overtake their ambitions. Though, upon further introspection, Tom was self-aware enough to recognize what the disgust was meant to disguise. He was bitter.

Tom was only a fourth-year, but he held an advantage over many of his classmates. His magic was more concentrated, more formidable than that of the rest, and he would come of age before a majority of them. If Tom could have been sure, he would have bet heavily on finding his soulmate before any of his cohorts did.

What a shame it was that he cared the least out of all of them.

What good was a soulmate when his own soul had an expiration date? What use did he have for a promise of love when it would not last?

A soulmate could not bring him warmth or joy. The concept of affection was to be discarded as a useless, frivolous weakness. Tom researched soul magic for his own ends, not out of any personal desire for a companion. Soul magic was powerful, if limited in its uses. If there was a way for him to leverage the connection, then he would consider the subject more carefully. 

As it was, he was skeptical of his own soulmate’s existence. His own soul—damaged, corrupted, _dying_ —had already been judged unworthy.

There were more pressing events to worry about—namely, the war.

The Muggle war and the rise of Grindelwald. A man who boasted power unlike any other sorcerer. A man who promised to lead those with magic into an age of enlightenment. Tom scoffed at it all, at the symbol whispered to represent immortality, at those foolish enough to place their fate in another person’s hands.

What did Tom care for the subjugation of Muggles? Every summer he was sent back to Muggle London due to the carelessness of those magical authorities whose job it was to look after him. What value could Grindelwald offer him when he was already marked for death?

As disorder and conflict tore through Europe, Tom busied himself with the task of survival. He held no illusions of what the future held for him should he fail. There was no room for slacking, no promise from any Healer that would dissuade him from his goal. 

The only one who could be trusted to keep Tom Riddle alive was him.

* * *

One frost-bitten, autumnal night, Tom discovered the Chamber of Secrets. A legacy left behind by his ancestor—the reason for the magic that flowed rich and deep in his veins, granting him as much strength as it did weakness. A blessing and a cursed entwined.

As Tom stood before the looming marble statue of the ancient, long-dead wizard, there was a shifting in his bones, a violent rush that seared him to his very soul. It was the most potent of magicks boiling under his skin, itching to burst forth and roam free. Tom was jubilant, overjoyed. Here was the pinnacle of his existence, the proof of his power and his destiny.

Tom Riddle could not die, could not wither to the cold wastelands of fate.

How could he, when such potential existed within him?

The world could not be so cruel to deprive him of this, of his brilliant, beautiful future.

Magic was his birthright. It would submit to his control—he would swear it to this hallowed chamber, to the mighty Basilisk that slumbered in its depths.

_“I will not die.”_

His words echoed thunderously off of the grimy, damp walls, the force of his oath ringing clearer than any incantation he had ever cast.

Tom dropped to one knee upon the chamber floor, then placed a palm down to steady himself. The chill of the chamber meant the stone felt normal—that was, the stone was close enough to his natural body temperature that he could not discern the cold of it from the cold of his skin.

Aside from that, Tom could sense the faint hum of magic that lived in this chamber, imbued in the very foundations of this room. Exultant, Tom got to his feet. With this discovery, something in him had changed. The course of his life had taken a new turn. 

Tom returned to his four-poster bed and laid awake for hours, unable to sleep. Even the monster clinging to his chest could not ruin his good mood. He felt warmer than he had in years; he felt alive. His magic had unlocked itself. It was _protecting_ him. 

What he needed was more magic. What he needed was more time.

His magic _burned._ He had hope.


	2. The Boy from Beauxbatons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy with glasses hopped onto the stool. His countenance was calm, determined as his regard swept over the hall of students. Bold like a Gryffindor, Tom thought. 
> 
> Then the boy turned his gaze to where Tom was sitting— 
> 
> —and Tom’s breath froze, crystallizing, the shards of it lodged in his lungs, spreading hairline fractures through his chest, carving permanent runes into his bones.

* * *

When Tom began his sixth year at Hogwarts, there was an assortment of new students in plain black robes waiting at the front of the Great Hall alongside the first years. A row of half a dozen older students with expressions ranging from nervous to disdainful.

Over the past few years, there had been many Beauxbatons transfers. The result of families seeking to escape German occupation in France. Most of the students were Muggleborns or Half-Bloods—only Muggle parents were fearful enough to uproot the lives of their families. Those with closer ties to their magical heritage had less to fear from Grindelwald and the Muggle war.

Still, the yearly introduction of new students had become commonplace. Tom was used to the presence of unfamiliar, unfriendly faces in all his classes. They mattered little to him, and so he charmed them when he could and otherwise left them to their own devices. 

Tom had acquired the allegiance of his Slytherin roommates after years of near-violent antagonism. His intent was to utilize them for their resources and connections. If Tom was to live past his twenties, he would require every ounce of aid he could muster. The young heirs of ancient noble houses would provide him with funding and security while he continued to seek ways to cheat death. 

So Tom promised change, promised a new world—threatened them, too, if it was required. He did whatever it took to gain their trust and their devotion. He knew more magic than any of them, was more powerful than any of them. If he succeeded in achieving immortality, then his limits would drop away, leaving him free to achieve all that he had ever dreamed of.

Over the course of researching cures for his illness, Tom had focused some of his attention on his family history. He hoped to discover which magical family his mother had belonged to. This task was difficult because Tom had been named after his father—a man who Tom was beginning to suspect must have been a Muggle. 

Nevertheless, Tom was drawing close to a breakthrough. There were only so many magical families that were rumoured to speak Parseltongue, families that were descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Soon Tom would be able to eliminate enough families that the truth would make itself known.

At the front of the Hall, the line of students was dwindling. Tom listened with half an ear, waiting to see if any notable names joined the Slytherin ranks. As a Prefect, he was seated near the empty end of the table so he could greet the new students.

Headmaster Dippet continued to read aloud from the list of new students in his usual droning monotone. Tom was already thinking of the feast, of the cozy bed that awaited him in the Slytherin dungeons. He had been weaned on rations this past summer at Wool’s, and the thought of a multi-course Hogwarts meal made his mouth water.

Heads passed under the hat. Tom noted the names, noted the houses, noted the faces. This school was his by birthright, and all those who passed into its halls fell under his purview. His influence was far reaching, growing with each year of students that joined Hogwarts’ illustrious ranks.

Tom turned his gaze to the high banners of each Hogwarts house. To Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Four founders of Hogwarts, one of whom was his ancestor. Salazar Slytherin’s blood gave him strength. He would not waste a drop of it.

At the front of the room, a final name was called. The last of the new transfer students.

“Potter, Harry.”

Tom could not say what it was about this moment that caught his attention at first. Was it the build of murmuring that accompanied the final Sorting of the year? Students were eager to get on with the feast, certainly, but this was far from unusual behaviour.

A boy with glasses hopped onto the stool. His countenance was calm, determined as his regard swept over the hall of students. Bold like a Gryffindor, Tom thought.

Then the boy turned his gaze to where Tom was sitting—

—and Tom’s breath froze, crystallizing, the shards of it lodged in his lungs, spreading hairline fractures through his chest, carving permanent runes into his bones.

It would have been unimaginative to say that time halted, that the world itself slid into sudden, shocking clarity, that the interlocking pieces of his life that had not—had _never_ —made sense until this penultimate moment.

It was truthful to say that Tom was captivated as his magic surged, _exultant,_ fit to burst out of his skin. The fervor was raging, his magic restless in the vessel of his body, seized by a desire to mold itself—to _merge_ itself—with the figure across the hall.

Were the stone walls of Hogwarts shaking, the thick glass windows trembling in their wooden frames? Was the night sky above them not turbulent, swirling with the epiphanies Tom felt rolling through his body like the purest of symphonies? Had life been lifeless, before this moment?

Tom imagined the sound of Harry Potter’s voice. The softness of his hand, the dazzle of his smile. How rapturous would they be when they met, when they touched? Tom’s soul quivered at the thought.

Around him, the muted commotion of the Great Hall had faded to a curious silence. The hat sat motionless upon that dark head of messy curls. It was placing judgement upon the boy underneath its brim.

_“SLYTHERIN!”_

Harry Potter rose from his place on the stool and stood steady on both feet, a counterbalance to the paralysis in Tom’s limbs. The pull of this bond surpassed all that seemed possible. Yet as Harry approached the Slytherin table, their locked gaze did not falter.

Up close, Harry’s eyes were a bold green. Tom could not help but compare them to the green of the Slytherin banner, to the trimmings on his school robes.

Students parted as Harry drew near, the sea narrowing to the mouth of a river as Harry held out a hand: tan skin, slender wrist, calloused palm.

“Harry Potter.”

Tom took the hand in his, strangled the gasp in his throat long enough to say—

“Tom Riddle.”

Harry’s hand withdrew. He sat down without another word, attention turned to where Headmaster Dippet was delivering the annual pre-feast speech.

Tom could not focus. Not on the speech, not on the enigma seated next to him.

His hand was burning with _warmth._

* * *

On weekends, Harry Potter wore robes in Beauxbatons blue. Stylish charcoal trousers and matching charcoal gloves. He strode with a distinct grace that was the envy of other students. 

Harry was a year younger than Tom, meaning they shared no classes together. Harry had given no signs of recognizing the innate connection they shared. The _soul_ connection they shared. Was Harry’s magic not yet mature enough to seek its counterpart? Or did Harry simply not care? 

Tom was baffled by the aloofness and maddened by the distance. Harry was his; magic itself had brought this very fact crashing down around his ears like an avalanche. It seemed unfathomable that Harry could be so ignorant of this. Their hands had touched. Tom had felt _warmth._

Warmth that he longed for, warmth that now drenched his every waking thought with heavy, decadent honey, dripping self-loathing into his lungs whenever he caught himself craving those gorgeous green eyes.

Tom was unwilling to ask, unwilling to lower himself to express interest in someone who had not bothered to do the same. His pride was going to ruin him, but he couldn’t stand to cave, to succumb to the ache in him that wished to _belong._

He did, however, make discreet inquiries as to Harry’s history. 

James Potter, sole heir of the pureblooded Potter family, had met and married his soulmate, a French Muggleborn witch by the name of Lily Evans. He had moved to France to be with her so she would not need to leave her family. Harry had been born and raised in France, had attended Beauxbatons for all his previous years of schooling. 

Harry was well known in youth dueling circuits for his impressive instinct and talent. He was beloved by his friends and professors for his natural charm and amicable attitude. He was a Quidditch prodigy, an unparalleled, undefeated Seeker—the youngest one in nearly a century. He was intelligent when he applied himself, jocular amongst those he considered friends, and easily brought to anger by injustice.

Tom had witnessed several altercations in which Harry narrowly avoided detention by virtue of Slughorn’s favouritism. James Potter had been a dedicated Slug Club member. No wonder Slughorn was intent on adding Harry to his collection. Everything Harry said or did was a representation of his individuality, his tenacity, his _ambition._

Harry was every bit the equal Tom could have imagined his soulmate to be. 

With the prospect of claiming his soulmate now a reality, it grew increasingly difficult to focus his efforts on his personal research. Tom was close to tearing his own hair out in frustration over this. All his spare thoughts were of Harry. He was a lovesick fool; he despised himself for becoming what he had once mocked without care or restraint.

Love was a sickness he could not afford to have. His priorities could not afford to change. And yet, and _yet_ —

Every ounce of self-preservation he had once possessed was lost to that echo of heat in the palm of his hand. His heart was scorching itself to ashes in his chest.

Tom stared after Harry Potter with _longing._

* * *

The week leading up to winter break was filled with disaster. Tom hated this time of the year more than any other. It was cold whenever he left the comfort of the common room or the library. He required focus to work on his assignments and projects; the endless chill that plagued him hampered his ability to perform to his fullest extent.

Tom spent evenings in the library long after curfew ended, scratching away with his quill and flipping pages of old tomes. His Prefect status and faultless reputation afforded him some luxuries. No one questioned if he was seen about after hours. But the later the hour, the frostier the air, and eventually Tom would be forced to concede defeat. If he pushed on, his hands would begin to shake, his vision dipping in and out of darkness, spots swimming through the air.

Cloak and robes pulled tight around him, he would return to the common room with none the wiser. The other Slytherin students never thought to ask where he had been or what he had been doing—Tom Riddle was a model student and could do no wrong.

So as they slid into the final rush before the holidays, Tom carried on through sheer force of will, casting Warming Charms on his clothing that did little to soothe the burning cold that rustled in his lungs.

Tom saw little of Harry during this period, which was a blessing. All of his mental faculties were devoted to the task of achieving the highest marks this term, to continue to top the ranks of students so that his intelligence and prowess would be the most notable aspect about him.

Nothing about his noble heritage, which was a fact reserved only for those most loyal associates he had taken under his command. Nothing about his illness, which he kept tightly under wraps. Nothing about his sudden attraction to a dark-haired, green-eyed boy in the year below his.

One night, Tom arrived in the Slytherin common room, passing into the gloomy green glow of the evening moonlight filtered through the Great Lake above them. The place was deserted; the hour was so late that most everyone had gone to bed. It was a Monday tomorrow, which meant there were morning classes to be alert for.

Tom rubbed at his eyes, pushing his exhaustion down in favour of stilling the tremors building in his fingertips. It was only once his eyes had focused that he noted the presence of the other boy in the armchair off in the corner.

“You’re up late,” said Harry. He was slouched in the chair, hair tousled far beyond its usual disarray, as though he’d been running distracted hands through it all evening long.

“So are you,” Tom replied politely. “You ought to get to bed.”

Harry smiled weakly in lieu of a proper response, then asked, “Will you be here over the winter holidays?”

Tom didn’t see why it mattered. Harry had parents to go home to.

“Yes.”

“Professor Slughorn’s been taking the names down, has he not?” Harry sat up, left elbow braced on the armrest of his chair as he leant forward. The question in itself was innocuous, but the subject smarted. Slughorn made a habit of asking Tom every year. As though the answer would ever change. 

Tom’s jaw flexed once before he managed to catch himself and relax it. “Yes.”

Harry’s gaze was inscrutable. Tom could not discern any emotion, which he blamed on the darkness of the common room.

“I think I will head to bed, after all,” Harry said. “See you later, Tom.”

Tom stood there a while longer, Harry’s voice ringing in his ears like the deafening gong of church bells. 

* * *

The halls of Hogwarts were less crowded now that all the fuss of last minute assignments and tests were done with. The library would be blessedly empty, and Tom would have almost the entire space to himself while the rest of the students enjoyed their holidays at home.

Tom had compiled a list of books he’d been meaning to get to since the start of the year but had yet to find the time for. Books on soul magic. Books on dark magic. A curious balance, but a balance that had the added benefit of dissuading others from forming the wrong impression.

While dark magic had its appeal, Tom was more concerned with finding a solution that would work. It did not matter if this solution was steeped in light magic or dark magic—though later, perhaps, he would apply more consideration to a specialization. 

Tom had long since acquired a pass for the Restricted Section from Slughorn. The Potions Master was eager to provide his star pupil with any and all desired resources. As it was, the two of them already had an odd relationship. Slughorn was responsible for brewing the potions that kept the worst of Tom’s symptoms at bay. Tom visited Slughorn’s office with some regularity—a habit which was attributed to Slughorn’s blatant favouritism.

Tom had been assured that the best and brightest minds at St. Mungo’s were hard at work on the development of a cure for him. During the Easter holidays, Tom would typically spend those weeks at St. Mungo’s undergoing tests and renewing his regular prescription of healing potions.

His trips to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts were few and far between—Tom liked to avoid the place as much as possible to not arouse suspicion. Only a few of the professors were aware of his illness, and he preferred it that way. His potions were digested either in the early hours of the morning, or in the late hours of the evening. 

There were to be no witnesses to his weakness. If he could not catch a moment alone, then he would go without. The withdrawal of a day was not awful enough that he was willing to risk rumours of his poor health going about the school. He had a reputation to maintain, an image to uphold in the eyes of the student body. 

Tom had lasted his entire early childhood without such potions—he did not need them now. Though his symptoms would worsen the older he got, he knew he was stronger now. He had only grown stronger since he had stepped foot in this castle, since he had uncovered his magical heritage, since he had met his _soulmate—_

His magic had never been more powerful. He would not allow anything to ruin his path to greatness.

Therefore, while the rest of Hogwarts began the trek to Hogsmeade station for the start of their holidays, Tom sat in the library with a stack of books half his height piled onto the table. He was sure the answers he needed lay somewhere in this castle. If not, then in one of the homes of his many associates—for their families, old and rich and pureblooded, would be knowledgeable in the sorts of magic he was researching.

For now, however, he would content himself with what was available. There were many interesting myths and concepts he had come across over the course of his private research, but more recently, there was one method of magic that had captured his interest.

_Horcruxes._

The ability to hide a piece of one’s soul into an object, thus ensuring the caster’s eternal life so long as the object remained intact. An ambitious project, certainly. One that Tom might have considered if not for the fact that his soul, at this moment, was entirely too fragile for such a thing. Splitting his soul would only worsen the rate of his deterioration. It would not cure him.

So the method itself was shelved, but the concepts behind it remained intriguing. Possibly useful, if he could find a way to twist the magic to his own use.

Now he had time to give that thought an appropriate amount of gravitas. He could read these books in peace, without fear of judgemental eyes peering over his shoulder and asking inane questions. What did any of his classmates know about the value of magic? Their greatest concerns were for their school marks and finding their soulmates. Their struggles were laughable compared to his own. They were nothing. They knew nothing.

Tom flipped another page of the book laid out in front of him. It was hard to focus through his frustrations. But he could not afford to become angry. Anger would not aid him. Anger would not help him survive unless he fueled that emotion into ambition.

_“Salut,_ Tom.”

Tom had glanced up even before the greeting—he was pathetically attuned to Harry’s nebulous presence. Harry was never around until he was. But when he was nearby, _oh,_ Tom was never more aware of the connection between them, unfulfilled as it was, than when Harry was within arm’s reach.

“Hello,” Tom greeted. They stared at each other for a passing beat, and then Tom’s brain finally whirled into action. Harry was _here._ Harry was here, and while some parts of Tom were mindlessly rejoicing at this fact, there was a calm, sensible part of him that recognized that Harry’s presence was illogical. “Why are you not down at Hogsmeade?”

Harry pulled out a chair and sat down. Tom was keenly aware of the way the back of his neck prickled, of how his limbs were immediately drawn towards the boy across the table. 

“I’ll be here for the holidays,” Harry said. “My parents returned to France to convince some of my mother’s relatives to move here with us. After some debate, it was decided that I would be safer here at Hogwarts.”

Was Harry upset about this? He didn’t seem so, but Tom did not know the quirks of Harry’s facial expressions, of his personality, to make a judgement call on it. This fact irritated Tom to no end. He ought to know everything there was to know about Harry. The varied sounds of his laughter. The way his eyes glittered under different types of lighting. His well-loved phrases and his favourite books. The things that made him smile.

Harry was still young. His magical core would not yet have solidified. Tom repeated this fact to himself. Harry was young. Tom was nearly seventeen, and Harry was only in his fifth year. Their bond was powerful, but perhaps it was possible that Harry had not yet noticed what lay between them.

But why, then, had Harry approached him on that very first day? Harry had introduced himself, had shaken Tom’s hand. And then—nothing. Polite greetings and pleasant smiles. Meaningless interactions that Harry offered to everyone at Hogwarts. Tom was at war with himself over this. 

Harry was his soulmate. Harry _had_ to see him differently. Harry was meant to be his.

Tom owned little, but thoughts of this torrid act of possession consumed him like no other. He wished to stretch across the space of the table and lay hands on Harry, to know if Harry was as warm as Tom’s memory promised him to be.

“I asked Professor Slughorn,” Harry continued. “There will only be us two here in Slytherin this Christmas.”

“Wonderful.” Tom’s heart thumped in his chest, but his tone was level, his posture straight as he casually flipped another book page over.

Harry made a noise not unlike a sudden exhale, then said, “You spend a lot of time here.”

“I do.” Tom paused, then relented, adding, “It’s nicer during the holidays when there’s no one around.”

“You do have a lot of friends. They must keep you busy.”

Tom had people whose company he preferred compared to others. He had those he thought clever or talented—people worthy of notice. “I suppose.” Tom shifted, angling himself to face Harry better. “You’ve quite the collection, yourself.”

Harry had—not quite _followers,_ but a group of friends that tended to congregate around him. This group was mainly composed of the other transfer students—now in other Hogwarts houses—and a few of Hogwarts’ own who were drawn to the thrill of newness. 

“We are both due in for a break, then,” Harry said. His eyes trailed the piles of books Tom had laid out on the table. “A _real_ break, mind you. Haven’t you been up to your eyeballs in books for weeks already?”

“I enjoy topics outside of our classroom curriculum.” Tom glanced back at his open library book only to realize that the book wasn’t wholly classroom appropriate material.

Harry’s eyes followed Tom’s line of sight, but his face remained amazingly impassive. “I can see that,” Harry said idly, like he was commenting on Tom’s choice of breakfast food.

Tom’s body felt stiff with tension, but he loosened his muscles enough to relax his shoulders. “Why are you here, then?”

“Why am I here?” Harry’s brows twitched. “I’m not sure, I suppose. I came by on a whim.” 

That had to be an excuse. “There’s books on Quidditch in the next section over.”

“Right. I’ll just go over there, then, shall I?” There was an edge to Harry’s question that hinted at mockery. Or was it teasing?

Tom did not respond right away. He was unsure what to say. Perhaps Harry would take his silence as a dismissal. 

Or perhaps not, judging by the shadow that hovered over the table top. Tom looked up. Was Harry waiting for a response?

“I will see you at dinner,” Tom said. There. That was firm enough.

Harry pushed back in his chair and stood up. The sound of the chair scraping on the floor was the most noise Tom had heard in the past hour. 

Another beat passed between them as Harry hesitated in place.

“See you at dinner, Tom.”

Tom returned to his book. The pages were… heavy. Dark magic rolled off the printed words like waves of fog, thick but quickly dispersed into the relative open space of the library. Tom dragged his fingertips down the left page; the texture of the old book was rough to the touch. He wondered if the book’s magic was seeping into his pores, poisoning him slowly, fastening to the pieces of him darkened by illness. That was what they said about dark magic, that it ruined the soul.

Well. He didn’t have much to lose in that regard. What could a minor exposure to dark magic cost him? Tom frowned, pulling his hand away. Or maybe it could cost him, if it hastened the progression of his sickness. This was a new train of thought that frightened him.

Frantically, Tom thought back through his own history. He had been looking at books on dark magic since his fourth year. There were no changes in his health as of late—at least, nothing he had noticed. If practicing such magic had an impact, surely he _would_ have noticed by now? His magic would have grown weak, his lungs would have deteriorated. Tom was as healthy as he could hope to be. Opening the Chamber of Secrets had even _strengthened_ him. 

The benefits of dark magic would outweigh the drawbacks. If Tom could cure himself, then what were a few years shaved off his lifespan? He planned to seek immortality in the near future. The consequences of meddling with dark magic would be minimal. Soon, he would fear nothing. Not even death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this tom is a true favourite of mine, honestly. he's a joy to write.


	3. The Uneasy Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a war going on inside of Tom. His emotions, his desires—they were raging against each other, sharp knives dancing a treacherous waltz in the pit of his stomach. Tom wanted—oh, he _wanted_ —all of carnal pleasures he had denied himself. 
> 
> He wanted to touch Harry’s hand, to cradle it in his own, larger one. To stroke the delicate, fragile skin of the wrist, tracing the lines of blood that lead to the heart. To caress the rough, calloused palm, to feel the intoxication rush of warmth flood his veins at the contact. 
> 
> Harry’s physical presence was potent, heady; it filled Tom with more _feeling_ than he felt capable of bearing.

* * *

Though Tom had hoped to avoid Harry over the winter holidays, their close quarters proved that to be rather impossible. They ate two meals a day together—excepting dinner, which Tom took to having either very early or very late—and often came across each other in the common room. Harry had made a few more attempts at conversation, to which Tom responded with varying degrees of stilted politeness.

It came to a head not one week into their odd isolation, when Tom entered the Great Hall, determined to enjoy his late dinner, only to see that Harry was seated at the table, serving himself a helping of mashed potatoes.

The urge to turn around and simply go hungry for the night was strong. But Tom was not a coward. He did not retreat, did not allow others to have the upper hand.

Tom sat down on the opposite side of the table a short distance away. Not far enough that Harry could take offense, given that they were still somewhat strangers to each other, but not close enough that Tom would be tempted. Tempted to touch, to sidle close, to press himself next to that which belonged to him—that which belonged _with_ him.

_“Salut,_ Tom.”

“Hello, Harry.”

Tom began to fill his plate. Dinner roll. Carrots. Chicken steak. Steaming and fragrant. His mouth was watering before he even filled it with the first bite. The heat of the food never reached him, but the flavour remained. 

On a daily basis, Tom ate through entire meals that, to him, existed solely at room temperature or lower. He drank water most days, for that very reason. Sometimes he had lukewarm tea if he was in the mood for it.

“So how was your day?” Harry’s voice was close enough that Tom startled, looking up without meaning to.

Harry had slid over on the bench to sit directly across from him.

“It was fine,” Tom said. 

“That’s nice. I decided to spend some time walking the grounds. It’s colder than I’m used to, here. But it’s a good difference. There’s comfort in being able to wear layers.”

Tom wore layers, for all the good it did him. He could cast wandless, wordless Warming Charms in his sleep. “I’m glad you find our climate tolerable.”

Harry chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of beans, swallowing before he replied, “Did you have plans for Christmas?”

“No.”

“Abraxas told me your birthday is on New Year’s Eve.”

Tom jabbed his fork threateningly in the air. “Abraxas needs to keep his mouth _shut.”_

Harry laughed, but it was light, airy—not malicious. “You don’t share much about yourself.”

“There are plenty of reasons for that,” Tom replied in a clipped tone. “I fail to see why you are suddenly sticking your nose in my business, anyhow.”

“There are plenty of reasons for wanting to get to know someone.” Harry glanced at his plate, which was only half-finished, then shoved at his potatoes with his spoon. “The gravy’s a bit off tonight, don’t you think?”

Tom wanted to seize Harry by the arms and squeeze hard enough he could feel the bone, solid and breakable in his hands.

_Why me? Why now?_

“Tastes fine to me.” _Tastes cold, just like everything else._

To prove his point, Tom reached for the gravy boat, intent on pouring more onto his plate.

Harry’s hand collided with his, the fingers brushing against Tom’s knuckles, igniting a spark of fire in the chill of the large, drafty hall. A jolt of magic. A jolt of _life._

Tom’s hand spasmed, the porcelain slipping from his grasp and landing on the table with a loud _crack._

_“Merde—”_ Harry jerked backwards as the gravy dumped onto the table, the sauce spilling thickly across the wood and pooling around the bottoms of the dishes.

Harry drew his wand and vanished the mess. Tom couldn’t move, couldn’t _breathe—_

His hand was tingling all over with a faint prickle and pulse of magic. The sensation danced around his palm, up his wrist, along the length of his arm like a serpent.

“Tom? Tom, are you alright?”

Tom’s throat was dry, parched raw like the desert, drawn tight with unspeakable emotion and unnameable terror. He forced himself to nod, to unstick the frigid set of his widened eyes and frozen limbs.

Tom did not speak until he was sure his voice would be level. “I’m fine.”

Harry’s hand had stretched out halfway across the table. Now it withdrew, settling onto the table. A pang of hurt shot through Tom; he seized it and shoved it down, unwilling to display any more weakness than he already had.

Tom cleared the rest of his plate, eating as fast as he could without appearing unseemly. Then, once he was done, he stood and watched as his plate and utensils vanished from the table. He could have gone for seconds, but the indignity was too much. The vulnerability he felt around Harry was too much. He was—he was losing control of himself.

He couldn’t afford to lose.

“Good night,” Tom muttered, turning his head away from the table.

Harry’s voice was faint. “Good night.”

* * *

The next morning, Tom woke early, as was his habit to do, and prepared himself for another day of studying. His morning routine was fastidious; aside from the usual washing and brushing, Tom took care to apply Warming Charms to every article of clothing he donned. It was an essential step to keep his body at room temperature during the colder winter months.

After so many years of practice, Tom had the entire process down to a brief ten minutes. The only downside was that it drained him of his magic for most of the morning—hence his desire to rise early. By the time Hogwarts’ breakfast hour was over, he would be refreshed and ready for his morning classes. 

An additional benefit of expending so much magic at once was that it strengthened his magical core. As Tom had grown older, the strain of it had lessened. Regardless, Tom was not afraid of pushing his body to its limits. If it was required for his survival, then he would do so.

But the early hour meant Tom tended to spend the first few hours of his day utterly alone. He preferred this, for it allowed him a measure of time to unwind and shake off the dreary fugue of sleep. It often took patience and energy to deal with his classmates and professors. His morning respite helped to calm him. It brought him a peculiar feeling of peace.

When Tom arrived in the common room after getting ready, he was surprised to see Harry was there. His hair was rumpled as ever, a thick blue scarf wound around his neck. 

_“Bon matin,”_ Harry greeted. “Did you sleep well?” 

Now that the holidays were upon them, Harry rarely wore his regular school robes. His casual wardrobe was composed of cashmere jumpers and well-pressed tan trousers. The Slytherin girls tittered about _fashion,_ like Harry was a model to be ogled and prodded at. 

Tom found it all distasteful, but he could not bring himself to be too bothered by it. After all, Harry was not destined for any of _them,_ so what did it matter how attractive they found him?

“Well enough,” Tom said, cautious. Why wouldn’t Harry leave him alone?

“I’m about to go for a walk around the grounds,” Harry said. “Would you like to join me?”

Tom was rooted to the floor. He could neither retreat upstairs nor take any step in Harry’s direction. Both options felt equally disastrous. Tom was sure that, if he drew too close to Harry, something would go terribly wrong. He would make a fool of himself, the way all others with soulmates had. He would lose his sanity if he accepted the vicious emotion of love. He would lose his life.

“I prefer to stay indoors,” Tom responded. “It is too cold out for casual walks. Not all of us feel the urge to strut about in public.”

Harry scoffed. “I think you could use an appreciation of nature, Tom. But fine. We can walk about the castle, if you like. I may make an exception for you.”

An exception. Tom tapped the fingers of his left hand restlessly on his thigh. He _was_ an exception. They were soulmates. 

But Harry was only trying to flatter him, he reasoned. It didn’t mean anything. There was no reason for Harry’s interest in him. Tom had never given the impression that such advances were welcome; if anything, he had dissuaded it. And Harry had never implied that he knew anything existed between them.

“There’s no one else around,” Harry said quietly. “Just you and I, Tom. Won’t you spend a little time with me?”

Damn it all. Tom’s hand clenched, fingernails digging into his palm. The pain was not enough to distract him. Harry’s face, earnest and pleading, was impossible to ignore.

“Fine,” Tom grit out the word. “Let me get my coat.”

It took restraint to not stomp all the way back to his room like a petulant child. Harry wanted to go on a walk. Ridiculous. Tom didn’t need to be courted. He didn’t need all this pitying and soft looks. So what if he spent his holidays alone at Hogwarts? It was well within his right to do so. He didn’t need company. He certainly didn’t need to be guilted into accepting offers for company.

When Tom returned to the common room, Harry was wearing a thick blue cloak that fit snugly around his shoulders. The flap of the cloak ended in tassels. Tom stared at it, then shook the incredulity off.

“Until breakfast,” Tom said calmly. “Then I’ll be off to study on my own.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you too long.”

Tom walked to the exit, pushed and stepped through, paused, then held the door open for Harry. He did not realize his mistake until Harry strode by, light on his feet like he was gliding. 

They were too close. _They were too close._

Tom’s magic burned all over, rising to a boil, slamming against the fragile surface of his skin. His shoulders jolted forwards, unthinking. Tom pressed flat back against the door until Harry moved away. His breath was held, his face flush with that same fevered emotion—longing.

Harry, thankfully, did not notice Tom’s panicking. He continued down the hall like nothing was the matter, stopping only once he was further down the corridor to check if Tom was still with him.

“I thought I had forgotten something,” Tom said quickly. “But I was mistaken.” He moved away from the door and let it fall shut.

Tom stepped slowly down the corridor, hoping that Harry would take his statement as reassurance that he intended to follow through with their walk. 

It worked: Harry continued to the corner, which was where Tom caught up with him, making sure to leave a respectable amount of distance between them. His heart was pounding violently in his chest, and Tom knew that if he let his attention slip, the ragged breath caught in his chest would make itself known. As it was, he was having difficulty passing air in and out at a steady rate through his nose and mouth.

“Where did you want to go?” Harry asked.

“Anywhere will do.” Tom preferred for them to avoid the draftier sections of the castle, but he was not about to request it.

“Let’s have a wander, then. This castle is so big! So many corridors and secret passageways. Plenty to explore. If we get lost, I know a spell that will help us find our way back to the Great Hall.”

So Tom let Harry set the pace of their little walk. They drifted through the castle, moving through hallways of portraits, past empty classrooms that contained the most curious books and objects.

Admittedly, Tom had never given much thought to exploring the castle after he had uncovered the Chamber of Secrets. To him, the Chamber was the only mystery worth discovering. But now he could see that there was value in the rest of Hogwarts, too. There were interesting things to find and interesting people to meet. 

Harry talked enough for them both, comparing his experience at Hogwarts to his education at Beauxbatons. The talking went on, with Tom providing brief responses here and there. Then Harry started to engage in conversation with the portraits in some of the lesser-used corridors. 

Many of the portraits were pleased to have the company. They deplored the lack of foot traffic in the area and praised Harry for his adventuring ways. Tom didn’t think the act worthy of such admiration, but Harry was happy to help the portraits out; he promised to return later to ease their loneliness.

Their morning walk ended in front of the Great Hall. Tom had expected to be tightly wound, to feel stressed and wary after an entire morning spent in someone else’s company. But that was not the case. Tom felt… calm. He felt as peaceful as he did after a morning spent alone. 

Harry had not been obtrusive, had not prodded Tom for more personal details. Harry had talked about himself, mostly, and then had gone on to talk to the portraits, asking Tom what he thought every so often—often enough that Tom never felt like Harry was ignoring him in favour of talking to the portraits on the wall.

“This was nice,” Harry said as they took their seats. This time, they were seated next to each other. Harry was sitting to Tom’s left, his arm a few scarce inches away. Hogwarts’ usual breakfast selection was laid out before them. “Did you want to do it again tomorrow?”

He should say no. The correct answer—the _sensible_ answer—was no. Harry was a distraction, a weakness, a complication that he could not afford to have. 

Harry was his soulmate.

Tom had spent too long as a child wishing for a family, for a friend. For someone to make the cold go away. For someone to love him unconditionally. A soulmate promised all that and more, but—

But Tom did not trust promises. He did not trust anyone other than himself.

“...Tom?”

Harry’s hand was resting on his, covering it partially, leaking heat into the skin, the flesh, the bone, the marrow of Tom’s own hand. The most casual of touches, fleeting—departing as soon as it had arrived, washing out like the endless tide. Tom shifted back and lifted his glass of water to his lips, draining it dry before he set it down on the table with a low thud.

“Sure,” Tom said. “Same time tomorrow.”

Harry smiled. The sight of it warmed Tom more than any charm had ever managed to.

* * *

Christmas at Hogwarts was tranquil. The Great Hall had two large pine trees draped in gold-and-silver decorations, one tree on each side of the staff table. It was nothing Tom hadn’t seen before: the trinkets and baubles, the tinsel and popcorn. The nicest thing he had to say about it all was that it was, at least, tastefully decorated.

For the few students who remained over the holidays, such decorations would only ever be a minor placation, incomparable to the unattainable concept of having a family that wanted you home for the holidays.

Tom avoided the Great Hall, avoided those professors that remained in the castle, watching him with pitying eyes. It was irritating enough coming from Professor Merrythought and Professor Slughorn—adding Dumbledore to the lot was enough to sour Tom’s stomach for hours. 

What parents would want a sick child, let alone a dying one? Tom had shelved his fantasies of a happy family unit. They were the dreams of a younger, more foolish version of himself that no longer existed. Tom concerned himself with living. With existing.

Tom concerned himself with—

_“Salut,_ Tom.” Harry plopped down onto the chair across the table, arms folded neatly, elbows braced on the wooden surface. “How goes the studying?”

“Perfectly well.”

“You _do_ take breaks, don’t you? You won’t still be here once it is Christmas?”

Tom only hummed in response. Usually he was forced to make an appearance, if only because others would worry after his absence. But during all previous years, Tom had spent almost the entirety of his Christmases at Hogwarts by himself. This year, a few of his dormmates had issued invitations to him; a courtesy, or else an attempt to curry favour. 

But Tom’s presence would do them no favours—their parents would not be as understanding of Tom’s upbringing and lack of pure blood. Only those in Tom’s inner circle were privy to his Slytherin lineage. When they came of age and inherited their family estates, they would belong to him.

And besides all of that, Tom was loath to spend the cruelest season of the year anywhere in the public eye. If he was to spend his winter holidays with Abraxas or Orion, it would be impossible for him to disguise his illness. The close quarters of the dorm room were already a trial; Tom did not believe he could manage enough privacy if he was to room as a guest in one of their lavish manors, surrounded by watchful House-Elves and disdainful parents.

And so, to answer Harry’s question, Tom said, “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“You don’t? Do you celebrate Yule, then?”

“I don’t celebrate anything.”

Harry fell silent, brows furrowing in an expression Tom did not like to see, for it was an expression dangerously aligned with _pity._

“I can assure you it does not bother me,” Tom said plainly. “You needn’t worry yourself with it. I am perfectly capable of passing the time without some frivolous holiday to occupy me.”

“Your birthday, though. Surely you celebrate that?”

People sent him gifts. Tom wrote thank-you cards for them. That was the extent of it. He had never enjoyed a proper birthday before—not at Wool’s, not at Hogwarts—and he had no intention of starting that tradition now that he was about to be of age. Tom was going to be seventeen, the legal age of adulthood in this world; a birthday party was the last thing on his mind.

“I do receive birthday presents, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tom said. “I’m not suffering in misery just because I don’t feel the need to pester people with my age.”

Harry snorted. “Charming, Tom. I can only imagine what a delight you must be at other people’s parties.”

Tom had no doubt that Harry held a fancy birthday party every year and was lavished with presents. “When is your birthday, then? Seeing as you already know mine.”

“July 31st. My mother calls me her summer golden child.” Harry laughed softly, the sound as gentle as a light breeze. “I tell her she embarrasses me, but sometimes I haven’t the heart. I know she means it out of love.”

Harry _was_ golden. Tom had witnessed Harry on the grounds during those few autumnal days of sunshine and warmth: sun-kissed skin burning bronze and gold under the bright afternoon sun.

“Your mother sounds like a lovely person,” Tom said.

“She is wonderful.” Harry’s voice trailed off as his eyes grew distant, saddened. “This is the first Christmas we’ve been apart. I miss her. And I miss my father.” Then Harry blinked, lashes fluttering over the gloss of emotion that threatened to swallow his green eyes whole. “But it’s for the best, yes? They are with each other, and with my mother’s relatives. Which is the best outcome I could have hoped for.” A fake, cheerful look plastered itself to Harry’s face, widening his mouth into a faint smile. 

“They will return safely, I’m sure.”

Harry’s pleasant expression flickered. “Ah, yes. I’m sure they will.”

There was a war going on inside of Tom. His emotions, his desires—they were raging against each other, sharp knives dancing a treacherous waltz in the pit of his stomach. Tom wanted—oh, he _wanted_ —all of carnal pleasures he had denied himself. 

He wanted to touch Harry’s hand, to cradle it in his own, larger one. To stroke the delicate, fragile skin of the wrist, tracing the lines of blood that lead to the heart. To caress the rough, calloused palm, to feel the intoxication rush of warmth flood his veins at the contact. 

Harry’s physical presence was potent, heady; it filled Tom with more _feeling_ than he felt capable of bearing.

Tom itched to move, to crawl across the table and tackle Harry to the ground, to crush their bodies together, to mold them into one being, body and soul. Tom wanted to feel and feel and _feel_ until he was bursting at the seams from the pressure of it, the _pleasure_ of it, until he was burning out of his own skin, tormented, driven mad by this infuriating boy who had been marked by the fates as _his._

Harry was staring at him, green eyes searing invisible lines across Tom’s face. It was only Tom’s impeccable self-restraint—his _pride_ —that held him back from complete ruin.

Control was slipping from him; he hated it. The woven threads of frigidity that kept him together were rapidly unravelling, loosening. Harry cascaded through the gaps like water, flooding every pore, overwhelming every sense. This was beyond the heat of passion, beyond the warmth of love—Tom was melting, drowning, _losing_ himself.

This could not continue. He needed to pull away. He had to. He could not falter—he _would not_ —

“We don’t need a party,” Harry said suddenly, dragging Tom out of his dismal thoughts. “But if you wanted… we could celebrate your birthday together. I’ve always thought New Year’s Eve was a ridiculous holiday.”

Tom had refused offers before. When it suited him, he wore isolation like a thick winter cloak. This situation should not have been any different, yet words refused to come to him. Tom could feel his refusal bubble up inside, trapped beneath the waves, failing to roll off his tongue. 

When Tom did not respond, Harry quirked the side of his mouth, dropping his gaze to his shoes for a second. “I just mean, ah, I have picked a present for you. I’d like to deliver it in person.”

Tom wanted to say no. Instead what he said was:

“I suppose there is no harm in suffering your company for another day.”

Harry laughed. He lifted his chin, meeting Tom’s eyes once more. There was a curious glint in those green irises. A light sprinkle of mischief. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. You’ve uncovered my ambitious Slytherin plan, which was to wear on you until you gave in and conceded to accepting my friendship.”

Tom’s breath froze in his chest, rattling softly in the cavernous vessel of his lungs. Friendship?

Harry held out his hand and quirked a brow. “What say you, Tom? Are we friends?”

Tom had taken to wearing gloves in Harry’s presence, but now he peeled them off, pinching the tip of each finger to loosen the grip of the fabric before removing it. The action was unthinking, his hands moving of their own according, his arm lifting, _reaching,_ desperate for the warmth of touch.

Their hands met. The shock of contact tingled pleasantly against Tom’s palm, pulsing with the erratic beat of his heart.

Harry desired friendship. If only Harry knew the truth of it—if only he knew how Tom hungered, how he _craved_ —then he would realize. Then Harry would see that there were all the reasons in the world to turn away and run in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of what i have pre-written for this story! thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far, it means a lot. i will continue to update this at a slower pace in addition to my other works <3


	4. The Promise of Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This—” Harry cut off with a breathless laugh, cheeks dark and rosy as he shook his head. “Sorry. I practiced this and everything, I swear. But you—” Harry lifted his gaze, met Tom’s eyes with his endless pools of green. “You are ridiculously intimidating for someone considered to be approachable.”
> 
> “Yet here you are.”
> 
> Harry laughed again. Tom’s lungs expanded, filling and filling, the sound of Harry’s joy flooding into him. Harry’s eyes scrunched up on the sides, regarding Tom with fondness.
> 
> “Yet here I am.”

Classes resumed in January. Tom welcomed the distraction. His life had grown monumentally more complex over the winter holidays, and the task of schoolwork was a good excuse for why all of his time was suddenly occupied.

Tom surrounded himself with his associates and did not linger in the common areas where Harry could find him. He exchanged polite greetings whenever their paths crossed, but otherwise sought to keep his distance. The memories of their time together would remain only that—memories.

Still, twinges of guilt plagued him whenever he caught a glimpse of those green eyes. A mixture of bewilderment and hurt flickered in their depths. Tom could not bear the weight of it; he averted his gaze every time. This issue was made worse by the fact that, on those rare occasions when Harry did encounter Tom on his own, Harry made no effort to come close and start a conversation.

Instead there was only the regret, the wound in Tom’s heart that grew with each dismissed opportunity they had.

Tom missed the company. But he could not bring himself to return to his weakness. 

Progress continued on his readings, on his betterment of himself. Over the holidays, Orion had retrieved many old books from his family library for Tom to read. So Tom busied himself with new topics, familiarizing himself with new branches of magic, expanding his horizons.

Harry’s birthday gift to him, wrapped in silver, lay tucked into the lowest drawer of his trunk. Tom could not bring himself to open it. If he did, he would be stripped bare by those feelings he had now sworn to avoid.

Tom felt colder than ever because of Harry’s absence—his imagination was playing tricks on his illness-addled mind, his monster was clawing viciously at his chest now that its comfort had been torn away.

But Tom could bear the cold. He bore it well, as he had done all his life, because this was the pain he knew how to carry with him. It was pain he had endured and grown around; it would only make him stronger in the end. The pain of what he felt for Harry…

That was another matter entirely.

* * *

Tom was going through withdrawal—or else some other awful, metaphorical creature had latched onto him, sapping him of his energy. The infection of his infatuation drove him to unfathomable distraction. His heart rate increased whenever Harry was near. His palms sweat inside of his gloves. Tom began to wonder if he had developed some kind of sixth sense that responded only to Harry.

The weeks until Easter break crawled along. Tom’s self-disgust trailed after it like an ooze. His mood deteriorated further yet as he caved to his curiosity and took to watching Harry in the corridors, in the Great Hall, on the Quidditch pitch.

It was unfair, Tom thought. He could not point exactly where the lack of fairness was, or why it bothered him to such a degree, but it was unfair, and horrendously so.

The day before Professor Slughorn was due to take names down for students remaining over the break, Tom found himself suddenly, properly alone in the courtyard for the first time in ages.

The weather was warming over, the plant life around him growing green and lively once more. Tom tended to avoid the outdoors whenever possible, but today sunlight had crept in on all corners of the castle. So Tom made an exception, catering to his impulse, and stepped out into the sweet spring air.

High above, the sun shone brightly, casting the stone walls of Hogwarts with a golden glow and bringing life to the wide grass fields. A few students were gathered in small groups, their books and treat-filled baskets laid out on makeshift picnic blankets. If Tom were to walk closer, no doubt he’d be invited to join some of them. But that wasn’t what he was here for.

He was here for… the illusion of spring. The tingle of the sunlight on his skin, the impression of heat that he could not feel. Tom stuck out his hand and examined the back of it. Fair as ever, save for the lines of veins that ran underneath the surface.

“Tom?” A hand touched his shoulder, sparking, igniting.

Tom froze, pinned under the fingertips that had barely grazed him, then rotated to face Harry Potter.

“Yes?” he asked, willing his voice to hold steady, willing his body not to betray him.

“This—” Harry cut off with a breathless laugh, cheeks dark and rosy as he shook his head. “Sorry. I practiced this and everything, I swear. But you—” Harry lifted his gaze, met Tom’s eyes with his endless pools of green. “You are _ridiculously_ intimidating for someone considered to be approachable.”

“Yet here you are.”

Harry laughed again. Tom’s lungs expanded, filling and filling, the sound of Harry’s joy flooding into him. Harry’s eyes scrunched up on the sides, regarding Tom with fondness.

“Yet here I am.”

They stared at each other. Tom was older and taller than Harry, but in this moment, it felt like they were standing on level ground.

“So,” Harry said, dragging the heel of his shoe on the grass below their feet, “what I came to ask, really, was if you had plans for the Easter holidays?” His face flushed deeper, the colour spreading across like fresh-spilled ink on a heavy cloth napkin. “Because I asked my parents if you could come stay with us. They would love to have you.” 

“You want to have me over for Easter?” Tom repeated, incredulous. He immediately cursed himself for sounding like an imbecile. Harry brought out the worst in him—all the weaknesses he had fought to bury. Tom wanted to scrape out the source of all these asinine impulses and burn it.

“Only if you wanted to! I don’t mean to pressure.” Harry’s brows raised a tad, just enough to expose a hint of anxiety. “But it wouldn’t be any trouble, Tom. I’d very much like for you to come home with me for Easter.”

Tom didn’t want to. _He didn’t want to._ Useless feelings leftover from weeks and weeks of trying to avoid Harry were pinwheeling in his chest. His soul ached with its desire to meet its other half. He had to put an end to this.

“I have plans for Easter,” he said. It wasn’t even a lie. It was the truth.

Harry’s lashes fluttered with uncertainty. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Tom echoed. Then, snidely, he added, “I don’t require your pity invitation, Harry. We spent the winter holidays together because it was convenient. Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking there was any other reason.”

Harry bristled, eyes flashing. Tom could sense the unrefined magic prickling around the edges of Harry’s natural aura. Such power. Tom had sensed it from the very start, had known that here was his equal, his match, his soulmate. If they dueled, who would win? If their wands met, would they refuse to cause each other harm?

When Harry spoke again, his voice was hard. “I see. My mistake. Consider the invitation _withdrawn,_ then.”

“Wonderful. Have a nice Easter.” Tom smiled, bland and emotionless, clamping down on every screaming atom in his body, twisting the inner parts of himself into silence.

Then Harry’s expression softened, the slightest smoothing of those irritated creases. His eyes shone from behind his glasses. “Have a nice Easter, Tom.” His hand leapt forward, grasping Tom’s elbow, fingers closing down once. A shock of warmth, a burst of flames. “Thank you for Christmas together.”

And then Harry was gone.

* * *

Tom’s annual trip to St. Mungo’s was a pain. A nasty Floo trip from the fireplace in the nurse’s office to the hospital’s visitor’s entrance. What followed was an awful hour or so of diagnostic spells and invasive questions about his person.

There was no such thing as a comfortable atmosphere in a hospital. Tom sat through the initial poking and prodding, and answered the healers’ inquiries as neutrally as possible. The rest of his time here would be spent performing mundane tasks to measure his physical health, his magical health, and his spiritual health. He would also undergo any experimental treatments that had been made available since his last visit, or else have new ingredients tested on him for their efficacy.

His illness was extremely rare and scarcely documented, the details known to only the most knowledgeable of experts. Tom was the youngest recorded carrier in recent magical history. Most others had their illness uncovered too late in their lives to be viable test subjects. Therefore, to study Tom Riddle was an _honour._

At this point in his life, Tom was numb to it all. He was an oddity, an experiment. He was not normal, and he would never be treated as such. While he wasted his time away in St. Mungo’s, he contented himself with what awaited him at Hogwarts; the admiration of his peers and professors, the potency of his magic, the shining light of his future.

This year’s visit, however, did not adhere to the monotony of its predecessors. This time there was, in Tom’s mind, an eerie awareness of the ticking clock. The healers that came to see him were more anxious than usual, which did nothing to ease his racing nerves. Unfortunately, they claimed there was nothing to tell him, and so there was nothing he could do while cooped up on the fourth floor except wait.

There was one visit that broke up his boredom, however. Healer Selwyn was no longer Tom’s primary Healer, but the man did take time to come by and see Tom every Easter without fail.

“How has Hogwarts been treating you, Tom?”

Tom slid backwards on the bed and tugged his blankets up, the better to try and maintain his dignity. “As well as ever. Professor Slughorn continues to tout my success to everyone he comes across.”

“Lovely man. Got me this job, you know. You’re lucky to have him as your Head of House.”

Tom only shrugged. He’d heard this speech before. “He’s been kind to me. I’m grateful for the opportunity.” 

Healer Selwyn smiled. It looked genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. A boy like you deserves opportunities.”

He did deserve them. He knew that.

“I’ve been talking to the healers assigned to your case,” Selwyn continued. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward, hands clasped benignly on his lap. “Your results for this year have taken a surprisingly good turn. They’re unsure what to make of it.”

“Good?”

“The projection of your deterioration has been significantly altered. By a small amount, but it is nonetheless notable. They’ll be back tomorrow to question you on your habits in greater detail, I suspect.”

His habits. Tom could only think of his recent immersion into books on dark magic. Darker magic than he had ever looked at before, even.

“Tell me, Tom, has anything changed in your life recently?”

The question plunged him into memories. Unwanted, unbidden, all he could think of was—

_Harry._

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. Selwyn looked at him, then, and Tom wanted to swear. The sudden stillness of his breath had not gone unnoticed.

“I met my soulmate,” Tom said, and watched with dread as Healer Selwyn’s expression cleared, professional interest caving to genuine surprise.

“Your soulmate,” repeated Selwyn. Then his eyes sharpened, their cool gaze falling upon Tom as though seeing him in a new light. “Of _course.”_

* * *

Tom was released from St. Mungo’s and sent back to Hogwarts with promises of further updates. They had pestered him for Harry’s identity, but he had refused to give it. Tom had nodded, smiled, and listened patiently to the eagerness of all the healers who came by to examine him. Britain’s greatest magical minds were on the case, he was told time and time again. As far as the healers were concerned, he had plenty of reason to hope. 

Tom was not as optimistic. They could talk all they wanted about utilizing his connection with Harry as a channel for delivering medicine and magic—it would not be enough. The spread of his illness was not linear. It would not be stalled by whatever temporary sutures they applied like feeble bandages over his soul. 

Back at Hogwarts, Tom went to the library and renewed his research on soul magic. On _soulmate_ magic. He had been a fool to discard that value of his soulmate’s existence. Any magic was useful magic. All magic was a weapon to be wielded against the enemy of his rebellious body.

Soulmates could draw upon each other for strength. This was a well-documented fact. Tom’s connection with Harry might add _years_ to his lifespan, if what the healers at St. Mungo’s had hypothesized was true.

If Tom convinced Harry to help him, and perhaps even visit St. Mungo’s with him next spring, then it was entirely possible that a permanent solution could be found. His soul may be damaged, but Harry’s was wholly, utterly pure. Untouched by the horrid illness that had plagued Tom all his life.

If Harry agreed to help him, then there was every chance in the world that Tom could free himself from the prison of his weakened body and at last achieve his full potential. Tom had not wanted weakness. He had no desire for the crippling promise of eternal love. But here was a reason to mend the bridge that he had so cruelly burned. For this, Tom would swallow down his pride and extend a peaceful hand.

* * *

“Harry?”

Harry looked up. Shock flitted across his face. That expression pulled at something inside of Tom’s chest. It had taken him a while to locate Harry out here on the grounds. Then again, had he not already known that Harry preferred the outdoors?

“Tom, did you need something?”

The question stung. Tom sat himself next to Harry on the bench, careful to angle his torso so that they were facing each other. “I wished to apologize for my previous behaviour.”

“Oh.” Harry’s brows slid together. _“T’inquiète._ Don’t worry.”

Tom shook his head, shifted closer. Harry glanced downwards, alarmed, but made no move to leave. Then his eyes caught on the garments that adorned Tom’s hands. The dragonhide gloves Harry had purchased for his birthday.

“You’re wearing them,” Harry said in bewilderment.

Tom placed his hand atop Harry’s and forced himself not to flinch at the heat that burned even through the magically-enforced fabric and into his palm. “I’m sorry, Harry, that I was so rude to you before we left for Easter.”

Harry ducked his head further. His face reddened as he looked at where their hands were touching. Where their magic thrummed together, two distant lullabies at last entwined. “It’s okay,” Harry said quietly. “I was—I overstepped.”

Tom closed his fingers in, squeezed lightly, and repressed a shudder at the unfamiliar sensation of warmth against his fingertips. _This could prove addicting,_ he thought, dazed. This could prove every bit as dangerous as he’d originally feared.

“You didn’t. If you’d permit me the chance to explain myself…?”

Finally, Harry lifted his head and met Tom’s gaze with his own. Hypnotizing, those eyes. Tom pulled his hand back and clasped his hands atop his lap, locking them in place to avoid temptation.

“Only if you want to, Tom.”

“I do. I—” Tom paused, tried to formulate the response that would appeal the best. “I trust you.”

There it was, _oh,_ there it was. Tom had said exactly the right thing; Harry’s face lit up. Not overtly, not in a way that was wholly expressive, but with an inner glow that radiated a modest joy. Joy that Tom had put there with his kind words.

Tom took a breath. Here was the speech he had prepared, the story he had never given to anyone else. The story he would now share with Harry, his soulmate. 

“I spend all of my Easter breaks at St. Mungo’s undergoing medical treatment,” Tom began, and he watched numbly as the light of joy died in Harry’s eyes. Such was the plight of an open, empathetic heart, Tom told himself. He had not asked for Harry to care so deeply about him.

So Tom continued to speak, to lay the silver threads that would eventually lead him to salvation. To spin the tale that would bind Harry to his side.

“I will do my best to deserve your trust,” Harry said softly, once it was done. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Tom.” He touched Tom’s shoulder, his eyes shining with care and affection and _vulnerability._

_Do not thank me, Harry,_ he thought. _I would ruin you without remorse._

* * *

Their morning walks commenced anew on the weekends. Harry led them on winding paths around the castle, chattering excitedly about this thing or that, introducing himself to portraits, picking up funny items they found in abandoned classrooms.

“Look at this tome, Tom! It’s as thick as the books you read for fun.” Harry hefted a large book, giving it a shake, only to cough and sneeze as a plume of dust enveloped his face.

“You are an idiot.” Tom strode forward and yanked the book away, tossing it aside as he drew his wand with his other hand to vanish all the particles in the air. “It is a wonder you haven’t touched something that wants to bite your hand off.”

“I don’t think there is anything like that here,” Harry said wistfully. “Your school is very kind, Tom. Her magic is welcoming. I can tell she cares for her people. No harm would come to any pupil that passes through these wards.”

Tom harrumphed, choosing to ignore the naivete of that statement in favour of examining the book Harry had waved around in the air like a madman. “What is this classroom? Some of these books are not in English.”

“You likely have a better idea than I do,” Harry replied. He tugged a bit at his jumper, brushing invisible dirt off of it. “Hogwarts’ curriculum must have changed a great deal since its founding. I would not be surprised if there have been dozens of discontinued subjects over the centuries.”

A good point. Tom flipped the cover of the book open and was greeted with more unfamiliar words. He flipped a few chapters ahead, just to see if there were any diagrams he would recognize. No images jumped out at him. Tom went to close the tome and put it back, but an impulse made him flip back to the start. 

There was a page dedicated to acknowledgments. While the rest of the book was in plain black ink, this page had colourful red ink etched into the center. Given how old as this book was, this inscription had to be handwritten. Tom dragged an index finger over the marks—the runes. For they had to be runes, to be written in such odd shapes.

“What is it?” Harry asked. He drew near, looming over Tom’s shoulder. Tom stiffened at the proximity, then relaxed as he felt Harry shift, moving around instead of over so that they were standing next to each other rather than being pressed together.

“It’s a book,” Tom said slowly, still unnerved.

_“Oui._ On what?”

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted. “It may be valuable if I can translate it.”

Harry squinted down at the page. “I don’t recognize the language. It may take a while. I think we can ask Professor Slughorn? Or Professor Dumbledore. I remember he mentioned knowing dozens of languages.”

“Perhaps.” Tom shut the cover and tucked it into his bookbag for safe keeping. He would sooner curse himself by accident than ask Dumbledore for help.

* * *

The year ended without fanfare. He and Harry were once again friends—close ones at that. Tom’s dormmates gave him knowing looks, but Tom had yet to confirm or deny anything to them. Let them think his attraction to Harry was a juvenile passing interest in a handsome foreign student. Tom alone would know the truth.

Now, Tom suspected that Harry was working up the courage to ask about a summer meeting. Tom’s previous rejection had done harm, clearly, which was an understandable reason for the hesitation, but Tom was not about to let it stand. He had plans to mend that wound, to fulfill the bond between them that was now blossoming into existence.

Tom made subtle remarks about how much he detested Wool’s during the summer and commented on how he was of age in the magical world, how he could leave if he liked—

A week before they were due to leave Hogwarts, Tom took Harry aside and asked if he’d like to go on a walk. They went outside and followed the long path that led down to the lake. Most students were immersed in last-minute studies, which meant the sunny weather was going unappreciated.

“Do you know what you plan to do for the summer yet?” Harry asked.

Tom glanced over. Harry had forgone his usual blue robes today. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, exposing his forearms. “Not yet,” he said. “But there is something I wanted to ask you about.” Tom paused, craned his neck to check Harry’s expression before he continued, “It’s the reason why I asked you out here.”

“Oh?” Harry looked _hopeful._ Tom felt his heart thump violently in response. He would take pleasure in what he was about to do.

Their steps slowed. Tom spun around so that Harry was standing before him, facing him. Tom had once imagined Harry drenched in sunlight, skin bronzed with a summer glow and hair swept into further disarray by the Scotland winds. Now Tom was face to face with the true image, he knew his imagination paled in comparison.

“Do you feel it?” Tom whispered, gentling his voice, sweetening his words with all the longing he possessed.

Harry’s lashes fluttered, uncertain, but when he spoke, it was also quiet. “Feel what?”

Tom reached out, clasped his fingers around Harry’s elbow and guided him forward. “I have been waiting for you,” he breathed. “To notice me. To understand.”

It was thrilling to gaze upon the multitude of expressions that flashed across Harry’s features. Tom could witness the moment when his words made their impact, the moment when Harry realized what Tom was attempting to imply.

“You—?” It came out as a question. Harry flushed, licking his lips. “You think?”

Tom’s smile came to him easily. He tilted his face down by the slightest of degrees and added, “If you mean what I do, Harry. If you feel what I do.” He slid his hand down the length of Harry’s forearm and wrapped his fingers around that slender wrist. So fragile, these bones. Yet what exhilarated him more was the vibrant pulse of life he held in his grasp.

“Tom, I…” Harry trailed off. “You’re older than I am. If you’re sure, then I believe you. I think—I _want_ it to be, if that counts for anything. Sometimes I feel like it must be.”

“It matters to me that you feel the same way, Harry. You know what I have to deal with, what my life is like. I wouldn’t want to burden you—”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “What? No! Tom, you would never be a burden to me, even if we were not soulmates. I want to be your friend, and I—I do like you. Very much.”

Until that moment, Tom had not realized there was tension held in his body. Harry’s confession had triggered a tidal wave of relief in him. 

“I do like you,” Harry repeated loudly. There was boldness in his words. There was confidence in the way he met Tom’s gaze.

Tom was still holding Harry’s wrist. His thumb brushed along the underside of it, his nail scraping over those delicate veins. His mind was buzzing with a cacophony of mixed feelings. Contentment at the acceptance of his soulmate bond, pleasure at the warmth of their physical contact, resolution for what he planned to do.

When he asked Harry to accompany him to St. Mungo’s next year, Harry’s answer needed to be yes. When he asked Harry to follow his instructions, to cast spells without fully knowing what they meant, that answer _also_ needed to be yes.

Tom needed Harry’s trust, and that required ownership of Harry’s heart.

So Tom leant in, slowly, dropping his eyes to Harry’s lips, leaving no doubt as to what he wanted. If he wanted it—he _wanted_ it—for reasons other than his own survival, then that was fine. It was only natural that he wanted Harry, his soulmate. He had come to accept his attraction to Harry as a feature of their soulbond. It was necessary for his goals, and if he enjoyed it, then that was only—

Oh, Harry’s kiss was _warm._

The shock of their lips meeting was steeped in heat, but more than that, it was sweet. Sweet as syrup, sweet as the melodic tones of Harry’s laughter, sweet as the shy touch of Harry’s hand on his waist.

Tom pulled Harry into his arms. He was drowning in the sensations, desperate for the rush. He gripped the nape of Harry’s neck, dragged his hand down the subtle bumps of the spine, pressing their chests together, revelling in the warmth that suffused every inch of his body where they touched. If only he could live like this forever, lost in the frantic onslaught of overstimulation, every nerve in his body turned into kindling set ablaze.

If he were to consume Harry whole, would the heat last? Would the flames etch permanently into his flesh? Would he forget the fear of cold and the numbness of never knowing true warmth?

When Harry withdrew, he lay his cheek against Tom’s chest, soft puffs of his hot breath fanning against Tom’s collarbones even through the cotton fabric that covered it. Tom held Harry tenderly, rubbed a hand down the younger boy’s back.

Tom had never asked for a soulmate. He had never asked for the misery of his life, for the cold that poisoned him. So he would do what it took to secure what he deserved. He would ensure his own survival, as he had promised himself, regardless of what it cost him. Regardless of _who_ it cost him.

If the bargain for his soul required him to lead Harry astray, to lie to the heart that was meant to love him, it would be a heavy burden to carry and a terrible crime to commit—but it would be a price that Tom, in his madness and desperation, was willing to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is already written and will go through editing soon. in the meantime, your comments are appreciated! i'm really vibing with this story lately and i'm excited for more of the plot to unravel 


	5. The Burden of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am very excited,” Harry said. He gave a little bounce on the balls of his feet to punctuate the statement. “I’ve never dated anyone before. Some people asked me, but...” Harry gave a shrug. “I told them I was waiting. Most of them understood.” 
> 
> “If they did not, then they were unworthy of your affections.” 
> 
> Harry hummed. “You would say that, Tom. To soothe your ego, of course.” 
> 
> Tom huffed. “I never, either. You are… my first.” _And my last._
> 
> “Aww.” Harry gave Tom’s waist a one-armed hug. “That is very sweet, Tom. Perhaps you have it in you for some romance after all.”

It was settled. Tom could spend the summer holidays with Harry. This decision had been in the works for quite some time—on both sides, in fact. Harry had been planning to ask Tom to stay with him, and Tom had planned to _be_ asked.

There would be some delay; Tom would need to visit Wool’s one final time to retrieve what remained of his pitiful belongings and inform that matron, but once that was done, he would never return to that wretched place again. 

However, Tom would not meet Harry until a week after summer vacation began. In the months following the rekindlement of their friendship, Tom had at last uncovered the truth of his family heritage. The last of the Slytherin line were the Gaunts, who were known to live near Little Hangleton. Now that Tom was of age, he would go to investigate. He would hunt down his mother’s relatives and get the answers he needed. A week would be plenty of time for him to get all of his affairs in order. 

Right now, however, he and Harry were walking the grounds of Hogwarts—one last jaunt before they departed tomorrow. Harry had his arm looped through Tom’s, but sometimes Harry would break off and skip ahead a few paces while he chattered. Tom got the impression that Harry liked to keep busy, to maintain constant movement. The opposite of Tom’s own preference, certainly, but Tom enjoyed the counterbalance that Harry provided. Harry could talk and talk, and Tom could simply listen.

“Will you miss it?” Harry asked, mild worry in his tone. “Your home?”

Wool’s was not home. Hogwarts was home. Tom was overjoyed to be done with Wool’s, but he understood why this subject had resulted in Harry’s concern. The Potters had fled France; Harry had lost his childhood home to the war. It was no surprise that Harry believed that leaving Wool’s might upset him.

“I hold few fond memories of that place,” Tom said in a neutral voice.

Harry frowned, then leant closer, pressing himself against Tom’s side. For a fleeting second, Tom thought how it was strange that Harry never flinched at the coldness. “My parents are excited to meet you,” Harry said, switching the subject over.

“I look forward to it,” Tom said.

Harry nibbled at his lower lip for a second, then added, “I have not told them, ah, that we’re soulmates. I want to do that in person, if that is okay with you.”

Tom smiled, indulgent. “I understand. I’m perfectly happy with however you want to present us to them, Harry. After all, they are _your_ parents.” _And I do not have any parents to offer their approval of you,_ he did not add.

Harry kicked at a loose pebble in a morose manner. Then a new thought must have occurred to him because his face brightened once more. “My parents will love you, Tom,” said Harry confidently. “So do not worry. Once they know, they will treat you like family.”

It was sweet that Harry thought Tom wanted parents. Tom placed a kiss on Harry’s cheek to reward the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “You are very kind,” Tom said, “and I am sure your parents are as lovely as you’ve told me.”

Harry beamed at him, likely reassured that Tom was ready and willing to accept a place with the Potters. It was not quite a lie; Tom would do his best to ingratiate himself with Harry’s parents.

“I am very excited,” Harry said. He gave a little bounce on the balls of his feet to punctuate the statement. “I’ve never dated anyone before. Some people asked me, but...” Harry gave a shrug. “I told them I was waiting. Most of them understood.”

“If they did not, then they were unworthy of your affections.”

Harry hummed. _“You_ would say that, Tom. To soothe your ego, of course.”

Tom huffed. “I never, either. You are… my first.” _And my last._

“Aww.” Harry gave Tom’s waist a one-armed hug. “That is very sweet, Tom. Perhaps you have it in you for some romance after all.”

“I can be romantic.”

“Oh?” Harry’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he pulled back. Then he made a show of glancing around, over Tom’s shoulder and under his armpit. “Have I not seen the romantic side of Tom Riddle? Where do you keep him hidden?”

“Very amusing,” Tom said, droll. Truthfully, he thought it was a good joke.

“It’s alright, Tom. I like you whether you romance me or not. That’s why I’m still here, after all.” Harry grinned and cocked his head to the side. “I am not so easily put off by your bad temper like others might be.”

Tom forced a snort, but inwardly he was… confused. After the Easter holidays, he had gone out of his way to woo Harry, but prior to that he had been distant at best. It was a wonder Harry had taken an interest in him at all. Was it purely because they were soulmates? Only, Harry hadn’t known that they were soulmates. Or so he claimed.

No doubt Harry was attempting to tease a reaction out of him with these comments. It was not an issue—Tom could play along, and it could even prove to be fun.

“Harry,” he said, pausing mid-step to gather Harry back into his hands, though he kept Harry at arm’s length so that they could maintain eye contact. “If romance is something you desire, then I will make every effort to fulfill that.” Tom traced a gentle hand over Harry’s cheek, then brushed at the bangs of hair that partially obscured Harry’s eyes. “By nature, I am not an openly-affectionate man, but I would be so for you.”

Harry’s resulting smile was adoring. He stepped further into Tom’s embrace and tucked his chin over Tom’s shoulder, snuggling close. “You are wonderful as you are, Tom. I would not ask you to change so much for me.”

“You are too modest,” Tom murmured. “I would change the world for you, my love.” He placed a palm on the small of Harry’s back and rubbed a slow circle. The novelty of their embrace had yet to fade. Tom craved Harry’s presence all hours of the day. He dreamt of closeness, of the comfort Harry’s touch provided.

They stood for a while. The sun warmed Harry, and Harry warmed Tom. Eventually, Harry lifted his head and linked their hands so they could resume their walk.

“I cannot wait for summer,” Harry said. “I have the best feeling about it.”

* * *

At Platform 9 and 3/4, Tom gave Harry a tender kiss goodbye. Harry’s father would be here soon, and though Harry had invited Tom to linger and introduce himself, Tom was wary of the first impression he would make while surrounded by Hogwarts students and wearing his Slytherin robes. James Potter was a stalwart Gryffindor, and though his son was a Slytherin, Tom doubted the man’s leniency would extend to his son’s beau.

“I will see you in a week,” Tom told him. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“I will avoid despair in your absence,” Harry declared with a scoff. But he was smiling, the side of his face dimpling with his happiness. Tom could not resist the temptation—he leant in, pressing a kiss against the dimple there.

Harry laughed slightly, bracing himself with both hands on Tom’s shoulders and ducking his head. Tom chased the motion, capturing Harry’s lips this time, intent on leaving him breathless.

A moment later, Harry made a muffled noise of protest and pulled away. He snorted at the offended look on Tom’s face, then said, “You are utterly shameless, Tom Riddle. What if my father saw that?”

“He’d find me charming, no doubt. Did you not say he courted your mother much the same way?” Tom flashed Harry a teasing smile and slipped his hands to hold Harry’s waist.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If you mean how he made an ass of himself to get her attention and irritated her until she snapped at him, then yes.”

“You must have inherited your mother’s sense of propriety, then.”

“My mother would sweep the floor with you,” Harry said, matter of fact. “But I digress. You should be on your way, no?”

Tom withdrew with some reluctance. Suddenly, a week seemed too long to be apart. “I will write to you,” Tom decided.

“But you have no owl,” Harry said, bemused.

“I will,” Tom promised. “Or else I will find some other way.”

“Fussy.” Harry sounded pleased, though, so Tom considered it a success.

* * *

Tom returned from Little Hangleton in a foul mood. His uncle was useless, little more than a Squib, and certainly not suffering from the same affliction as his nephew. The Riddle family had been worse yet, a stuffy gathering of close-minded fools.

There was nothing there that could help him. Tom could only steal what items he wanted, Obliviate them of his existence, and lay charms to track their movements. In the future, he might require their assistance—their fresh blood and bone—for rituals. For now, he would satisfy himself with a taste of wealth and riches, with vials of blood taken from his wretched relatives and his filthy Muggle father tucked safely into his potions kit.

Harry was waiting for him in Diagon Alley. They’d agreed on the location for its convenience; though Tom found the area pedestrian, there was no other place both he and Harry would be familiar with other than Hogwarts.

Tom straightened his robes—newly purchased for this occasion. Expensive, yes, but Tom took care of his valuables. These robes would last him a few years, at the least. And if not, well, he had plans for his future, and friends in high places. Money was no longer the same concern it had been for eleven year old Tom Riddle, the foolish boy who was terrified of dying and unable to stop it from happening.

Tom was no longer powerless. He had connections and power and a plan. Years from now, when he strode down Diagon Alley in finer robes than these, people would take notice of him. They would gaze in awe and admiration of his achievements. They would know he was someone to be taken seriously.

“Tom!”

Harry’s voice drew him in. Tom turned to take in the sight of his soulmate. The blue of Beauxbatons was gone—in its place was a soft green jumper and plain grey trousers. No robes, which perhaps made sense given the warm weather, but surprising all the same.

As Tom stepped over, Harry’s delight took a gorgeous upwards turn. Oh, how lovely was the way that Harry’s face brightened upon seeing him. The joy that lit Harry’s smile was infectious; Tom felt his own answering smile spread across his lips without any need for conscious action.

Just behind Harry was his mother—fiery hair and emerald eyes.

“Harry,” he greeted. “Mrs. Potter.”

_“Maman,_ this is Tom Riddle, from Hogwarts. Tom, this is my mother.”

Lily Potter was stunning, radiant. _This,_ Tom thought, _is where Harry inherited his warmth from._ Kind crinkles around her eyes and a thin gloss on her lips. Her clothes, while fashionable, were understated. Lily had no need for expensive articles to accentuate her beauty.

Lily extended a hand, which Tom took. He pressed a kiss to the pale skin and bowed deeply. _“Enchanté,”_ he said, then allowed a smirk to curl his mouth. “I see where Harry inherited his allure.”

“So charming,” Lily responded, teasing. Her accent was strong but not overwhelming. It reminded Tom most strongly of Abraxas’ conversational French. Lily retracted her hand and patted Tom on the cheek. “I hope you do not treat Harry to such cheap flattery.”

Harry made a scandalized sound, his cheeks darkening. _“Maman!”_

Tom grinned, feral. “Oh, but of course. I promise I compose the only most eloquent of commendations for your son, Madame. I could fill the entire library of Alexandria with novels written about Harry’s many virtues.”

“Tom,” Harry whined. “You are just as embarrassing.”

Lily’s smile turned sly. “I would expect nothing less.” She offered both her arms for them to take. “Shall we depart, gentleman?”

* * *

‘I have a gift for you,” Tom murmured later in private, when Harry’s parents were in the midst of preparing their evening dinner—a regular occurrence, according to Harry.

“Oh? A gift from your secret travels?”

Tom allowed himself to touch—he reached for Harry’s hand and tangled their fingers together. “I would gift all the treasures of the world to you.” With his free hand, he dug into the pocket of his coat and removed a small box. Deep gray velvet, it was an item pilfered from Riddle manor to house this particular present.

With a tender motion, Tom brought Harry’s hand up to meet it, placing the box into Harry’s palm and curling his fingers around it.

“Open it,” Tom encouraged.

Harry eyed the box with eagerness, prying it open with careful fingers. Inside lay the ring—Tom’s family ring, the ring with the signet of the Gaunts carved into the gemstone. The metal of the original ring had been ugly, tarnished. So Tom had brought it to a Muggle jewelry shop to have it refitted in silver.

Now the dark stone glittered beautifully in its new home, surrounded by the shining silver of the serpent shape Tom had designed.

Tom lifted the ring out of its casing and slipped it onto the ring finger of Harry’s right hand. “My family ring,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb lightly over Harry’s knuckles.

Harry inhaled sharply as the ring settled in place. His eyes were reverent as they traced each facet of the stone. “Tom, I cannot possibly accept this.”

“Of course you can.” Tom pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, relished in the questioning glance Harry threw his way. “It is yours as much as I am.”

“Hmph. Is this because I said you were not capable of romance?”

Tom laughed and pulled Harry into his arms. “It is shameful that you doubt my capabilities, Harry.”

“I never doubt you, Tom.” Harry’s eyes remained fixed on the stone fastened to his finger. “You are capable of great things. I know I am not the first to tell you this, but I hope it means something to you, coming from me.”

Tom’s grip loosened. He tucked Harry under his chin and breathed deeply, absorbing the warmth of the younger boy in his embrace. “It does.”

* * *

Summer became a beautiful blur of pastoral walks and homemade meals. The Potters prepared everything themselves, without the use of House-Elves. It was odd, given James Potter’s heritage, but after a while of knowing Lily Potter, it was rather clear where Harry got his tenacity from.

James Potter may have been the persistent sort, to chase after his love despite multiple rebuffs, but Lily Evans was a pillar of integrity to refuse him each and every time, denying their bond in the face of his immaturity.

Harry spoke lovingly of his parents at every turn. How he admired their love and their bond, how he could recite the story of their first meeting from memory. One might have assumed that Harry was the idealistic, infatuated sort—the type of person in love with the idea of love—only the course of his relationship with Tom proved otherwise.

Their progression was minimal. Harry may have consented to wear his ring, to be known as his, but Tom began to suspect that in many ways, Harry continued to hold him at arm’s length. How much of Harry did he really know? Harry talked of nearly everything: his Quidditch successes in France, the desserts his mother made for him as a child, and the pranks his father used to play at Hogwarts. Harry talked about everything except for himself.

During rare moments of openness, Tom learned the depth underneath the layers of cheer. Harry had hopes, dreams, and fears as much as any other person. Individually those items may not have been so interesting, but as a whole they painted an intriguing picture.

Tom had known from the beginning that Harry would be special, would surpass the expectations all others had failed to meet. Harry was his soulmate—Tom could only be destined for the very best.

On the evening before Harry’s sixteenth birthday, they sat down Harry’s parents in the living room and broke the news.

Lily was unsurprised. “If you had not said, I would have suggested it. The two of you have a visible connection.”

James had no outward reaction other than to narrow his eyes and shift his body language enough to give off an air of intimidation. Tom thought it amusing, mostly. Just the other day he and James had bonded over their shared experience of partaking in Professor Slughorn’s ‘Slug Club’.

“Harry is a bit young,” James said at last, looking between them both. “Are you certain?”

Tom only smiled and waited for Harry to respond—it would do them no favours in this case if Tom was the one who tried to convince them. Harry _was_ young. It was only Tom’s word that tied them together.

“Tom feels it,” Harry said dutifully. “And I believe him. I think, soon, I will feel it too. Now that I am sixteen.”

James harrumphed. “Potter genes,” he said, crossing his legs. “Mature faster than most.”

Lily smacked her husband on the arm. “You tried this line with me, don’t think I have forgotten!”

Harry grinned at his parents, then gave Tom’s hand a gentle tug. “See?” he whispered. “Everything will be well.”

Tom hoped it would be.

* * *

As Tom was of age and able to Apparate, he and Harry were permitted to leave the house whenever they liked so long as they left a note explaining where they’d gone. Harry enjoyed the freedom, and so they often travelled to places beyond the neighbourhood of Godric’s Hollow.

It was, in essence, an extension of their easygoing walks around Hogwarts. Tom found that the combination of Harry’s presence and the summer sun was enough to ward off the chill of his soul. There were times when Tom forgot he was meant to be cold—with Harry’s hand wrapped around his, there was only warmth burrowed under his skin.

Tom thrived off every moment he spent with Harry. His soulmate strengthened him. Their bond was fueling him with vitality. It was the most enjoyable summer he could ever remember having.

Of course, time with Harry had other benefits. Tom had been working towards his goal: getting Harry to accept his invitation to spend the Easter holidays at St. Mungo’s.

Now that September was in sight, he had made minor adjustments to his plan. Harry and his family were _too_ welcoming. Details on the severity of his illness needed to be kept secret. Harry’s parents could not be privy to the extent of what he endured. If they knew, they would intervene, surely, and Tom did not want any witnesses to his manipulations.

Hence the change of plans.

“Harry, there is something I wanted to talk to you about. Before we go back to Hogwarts.”

“Yes?”

Tom paused mid step to take both of Harry’s hands in his. They were walking through Godric’s Hollow this morning. With the deadline of September 1st fast approaching, James and Lily wanted to spend as much time with their son as possible. Thus Harry had agreed they would keep their walks short and close to home. Now they were near the local park, where the grass sloped with lazy hills full of fluffy green grass.

Upon spotting Tom’s serious expression, Harry’s face fell. “Is something the matter, Tom? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” Tom said. He brushed the pads of his thumbs over the top of Harry’s hands. “Better with you, in fact.”

A shy smile graced Harry’s features. “I’m glad. I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer here.”

Tom allowed a genuine smile of his own to spread across his lips. “I have, and I have you to thank for it. But I digress, the subject I wish to address is one that has hung over me for quite some time.”

“I am here to listen,” Harry promised.

“You are too kind to me by far,” Tom demurred. Then he sighed, the slowest exhale of air, and lowered his shoulders. “I have never told anyone about my yearly visits to St. Mungo’s. If they knew, they would pity me. Everything I am, all that I have achieved, laid waste to the weakness of sympathy. They would lose respect for me in Slytherin house.”

Harry frowned and touched the fingertips of his right hand—the hand that wore the Gaunt ring—to Tom’s cheek. “Surely not. You are Hogwarts’ brightest star, Tom. You will be Head Boy this year. You have earned your respect and more.”

“Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies,” Tom said, infusing his words with bitterness. “You would be astonished to see how quickly they would turn on one of their own, especially due to my lack of parentage. You are the heir of a wealthy Pureblood line, Harry. I would not expect you to understand. Perhaps your mother could tell you of how they treat those with Muggle blood, even those with talent.”

“She never mentioned such a thing.” Harry made a thoughtful sound. “Maybe it is only Britain that has this problem?” Then he placed a hand on Tom’s forearm. “But even so, I do not care for your heritage, Tom. Anyone with sense should see you are wonderful by your own merits.”

“You are the one person I trust,” Tom said carefully. “I do not want to burden you with my troubles. Admittedly, this is why I was initially resistant to your overtures.”

“I wore you down, then,” Harry said lightly.

Tom flashed a tender smile. “I’m grateful you did not give up on me.”

Harry’s eyes softened. “I would never. After all, are we not destined for each other? I would see through your bravado, Tom. More than any other. I think I could sense, even then, that part of you wanted to be seen.”

Tom swallowed as a sudden chill struck him. His throat was prickling; he had to cough to clear it. He had not expected such a response. Instinct took over, an innate trait that had saved him many times before. Tom seized Harry’s face gently with both hands and pulled him into a passionate kiss.

The panic receded immediately, the tightness in his chest banished by the glorious warmth of Harry’s lips against his own and the heat of Harry’s cheeks pressed into his palms. There was the soft gasp Harry made as his hands came to fist at the front of Tom’s shirt. Harry was tugging him downwards, closer and closer. As if Harry had not become the center of his gravity the moment their lips met.

Tom kissed Harry breathless and then some. By the time they pulled apart, Tom could hardly focus, let alone recall the original track of his thoughts. Harry licked at swollen lips and ran a hand through his tousled curls. He did not seem the slightest bit bemused by their impromptu snogging session.

“We’ll be late for lunch,” Harry said, after a pause.

Tom laughed, half-hysterical, and kissed Harry again, a soft peck that prompted Harry to giggle at him. “You’ll be the death of me,” Tom muttered against Harry’s mouth, nudging Harry’s nose with his own. He could not help but wonder, however, how true those words might be.

Harry hummed, a siren song that filled Tom’s ears with hopes and dreams. Then Harry withdrew, his green eyes full of determination, and said, “Death will not take you from me without a fight, Tom. I will be by your side every step of the way.”

Tom breathed out. He did not wish to move, did not wish to end this moment and re-enter the reality where their relationship was only a means to an end.

As a child, Tom had stolen to get what he wanted. Tom had lied to many and cheated many more, had utilized his charm as a tool and a weapon. This case was no different. Harry healed the deep wrongness inside of him, chased the painful freeze of winter out of his soul with the loving touch of tender hands and kind words.

With every second they spent together, Harry was keeping him alive. Harry was ensuring the survival of Tom Riddle with the simple fact of his _existence._ So long as that held true, Tom would take as much as Harry was willing to give, and he would pull the rest out with bloody hands if it was necessary.

Harry wanted a soulmate, wanted a man that would love him, unreservedly, with loyalty and devotion.

Tom would deliver all of that with a smile. He could not deny that the draw was there, that part of him craved Harry’s presence.

But if the opportunity one day presented itself—the fatal question of his soul or Harry’s—Tom knew what his answer would be.

“My sweet saviour,” Tom whispered, gazing with affection into Harry’s eyes. “If my good health is sustained by your love, then I shall live for all of eternity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo hoooooooooooooo next chapter will cover tom's seventh year at hogwarts and some more angsty stuff probably


	6. The Brink of Calamity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was a soul, exactly? What was it made of, how did it function? Could it be removed, replaced, duplicated? From his dalliances in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts’ library, Tom was aware that the portioning of a soul—specifically, with the use of Horcruxes—was entirely possible, if ill-advised for him at the present moment. Splitting his soul would not heal it, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for the beta on this chapter! 

Tom’s seventh and final year at Hogwarts would be the best of them all. 

When he was not attending to his Head Boy duties, he would spend time with Harry. When he was not with Harry, he would continue strengthening his connections and forming his power base. When he was not working on those things—

“A new pass, my boy? For a new year, I daresay!”

Tom smiled widely at Professor Slughorn. “You know me, sir. Always eager for a new book to read. The rest of the Hogwarts library,” he paused, canting his head to the side in a gesture of dismay, “well, I’m afraid I’ve made my way through everything of note.”

“Of course, of course. Smart boy like you, no wonder…” Slughorn trailed off, absent minded, as he scrawled out a brand new pass for Tom to take to the Hogwarts librarian. “Purely for research purposes, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t dare presume to try anything so dangerous on my own.”

“Here you are.” Slughorn presented a neat rectangle of parchment for Tom to take. “I can’t imagine how you have the time, Tom! You have Head Boy duties this year, and your NEWTs to worry yourself with. Make sure to rest from time to time!”

Tom knew what Slughorn wanted to hear in response to that. “That’s what your parties are for, sir.”

A delighted smile lit up Slughorn’s face. “Ah, you warm an old man’s heart. But life outside Hogwarts, Tom, that is where you will soon be succeeding!” Slughorn made a happy sound, likely fantasizing of the future favours Tom would reel in for him. “Now, another matter if you do not mind my asking, Tom.”

At long last, something unexpected. “Oh?”

“I’ve seen you and young Mr. Potter out on the grounds lately, and I do not mean to pry, but—”

Tom kept his expression impassive. Slughorn wanted to know if they were soulmates. A reasonable assumption and a reasonable inquiry—only Tom was reluctant to share. The truth of his bond with Harry felt private. It was not a tool to be used in extracting use from Horace Slughorn.

“I immensely enjoy Harry’s company. We pass the time together well.”

Slughorn’s bemused expression faded into melancholy. “Brilliant boy, yes. No wonder the two of you get along. I taught his father, you know. Brilliant man.”

Tom had a better answer for this. “Absolutely. I met him this summer. Harry was kind enough to let me stay with his family.”

Slughorn beamed and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. He seemed pleased with this information, likely expecting the romance to unfold before his eyes. “Great family, the Potters. Great family. Everyone was scandalized at first when James Potter moved to France. But one does what one must for love, isn’t that right, Tom?”

“Of course, sir.” Tom smiled pleasantly and hoped Slughorn would take the hint.

“Yes, yes. Lovely couple. Would have been simply delighted to attend the wedding, but alas. Duty calls here at Hogwarts!”

Tom gave an artful shrug. “A downright shame. Though I’m sure now that the Potters are back in Britain, they would love to hear from _you,_ sir.”

“Perhaps I will send them a missive. Nothing too forward, but an invitation to lunch if they so desired…” Slughorn trailed off, eyes growing distant, no doubt already planning how to charm the winsome couple into his confidence.

“I’d best be on my way then,” Tom said politely. “Thank you for the pass, sir.”

“No trouble at all, Tom. Not for an excellent student like you!” Slughorn waved him off to the door, and Tom did not hesitate to make his escape.

* * *

Later that week, Tom found himself waiting for Harry just outside the Great Hall. They were due for an early breakfast followed by one of their typical walks. The weather was beginning to cool, driving them indoors, but Tom found that the dreary atmosphere was not as much of a pain as it had once been. Cold, yes, but less torturously so. Harry kept him warm.

So whenever Harry lifted a brow in question, checking to see if a walk outside would be acceptable, Tom was more inclined to say yes, to prove wrong the illness that harmed him, to overcome the weakness he hoped to be rid of.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting, however, Tom grew worried. Harry, while sometimes tardy, did not make a habit of being this late when it came to their relationship. Had something happened to him? Tom was about to head back to the Slytherin Common room when Harry at last came barrelling around the corner, a bemused frown on his face.

“Where were you?” Tom demanded, stomping over and examining Harry for injuries. His hands settled on the younger boy’s shoulders, holding him in place for Tom’s stern gaze to roam over.

Harry attempted to squirm out of the grasp and shook his head. “I took a different turn and ended up on a detour.”

“You mean you took a _wrong_ turn and got _lost?”_ Tom scoffed, then reluctantly released Harry and took a step back.

“I have said before that Hogwarts is kind. She only led me to where I needed to be. Some wandering, yes, but now she has led me back to you.” Harry grinned, sheepish. “So I believe it has all worked out, no? And we are still in time for an early breakfast.”

Tom sighed and grabbed at Harry’s hands. Immediately, the faint, ever-present chill in his fingers vanished. Frostbite banished by Harry’s touch. “Breakfast,” Tom said. “Then I will lecture you on looking after yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Harry protested, but allowed himself to be dragged into the Great Hall and over to the Slytherin table. “Nothing has happened to me, Tom.”

“You are careless, like a Gryffindor.”

“You are fussy, like my mother.”

Tom snorted against his will, lips twitching with mirth. He glanced to his side to see that Harry was wearing the most audacious, shit-eating smirk on his face. Truly, the sight of that smirk was enough to send a strange flutter of emotions into his stomach. Harry was… perfect.

They sat down at the table. Tom poured himself a glass of orange juice, then set the pitcher down on the table. Usually he would pour Harry a glass, or at least offer, but Harry had just insulted him. There needed to be retribution for the slight.

Harry’s bright eyes flickered to the pitcher, then to the empty glass in front of him. “Oh, woe is me. I must pour my own juice on this dark and dismal morning?”

Dismal, indeed. Tom gazed up at the enchanted ceiling, which swelled with heavy grey clouds. No doubt those clouds were holding a torrential downpour within.

“I should hate to act like your mother and pour your drink for you,” Tom commented half-absently as he continued to watch the progress of the worsening weather.

“Fair,” Harry allowed, and reached for the orange juice, filling his glass halfway before he set it back down. “Perhaps tea later,” he added. “It does feel rather chilly today.”

Tom snapped his eyes back to the table and began to fill his plate with food. “We may go outside if you wish.”

“Oh? I don’t want to trouble you, Tom. We can stay indoors. Everything is just as lovely inside Hogwarts.”

“After you got lost this morning? I think not.”

“I did not get _lost.”_

Tom stabbed at a breakfast sausage and lifted it to his mouth, hoping that the gesture would mask the grin threatening to split his face.

After breakfast, they went outside. Harry held his hand, and Tom’s fingertips stayed warm.

* * *

For the next month, Tom focused his research on soul magic, on the complexities of the soul, on the connections that existed between soulmates. Soul magic may have been one of the most prominent fields of study in the magical world, but it was far from demystified. 

There were entire departments in the Ministry of Magic dedicated to researching it in all its aspects. There were dozens of textbooks and hundreds of research papers. Still, no one was quite sure how such a thing as soulmates had come to be, or even exactly how having a soul worked.

What was a soul, exactly? What was it made of, how did it function? Could it be removed, replaced, duplicated? From his dalliances in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts’ library, Tom was aware that the portioning of a soul—specifically, with the use of Horcruxes—was entirely possible, if ill-advised for him at the present moment. Splitting his soul would not heal it, after all.

Last spring he had told Harry that his illness was centered on the soul, that the very existence of his soul was in mortal peril. He had not spoken of the exact name, and Harry had not asked.

Tom did not like to think about the depressing future that awaited him. Thoughts of his own failure were depressing at best. It was not the gentle comfort of death that would greet his damaged, diseased soul. A cruel half-existence was all that he feared. Endless agony and eternal cold shadowed his footsteps. Now that Tom had acquired a taste of warmth, he was loath to let it go.

His life was precious, more valuable compared to others, and he would cling to it with every ounce of determination and intelligence he possessed.

The books Tom read through in the Hogwarts library were old and difficult to decipher. Some of the passages were written in old English, or else were written in a mix of English and other languages such as Latin. Tom taught himself a shoddy translation spell and made do with crude approximations when the phrasing was unclear. He busied himself with this task, so much so that the book he and Harry had uncovered last year remained at the bottom of his trunk, mostly unread. 

Tom was mildly curious as to what had convinced him to keep it. Out of all the interesting books and trinkets he had happened across, this book was the only one Tom had deemed worthy.

From its diagrams, Tom suspected the subject of it was soul magic, specifically soulmate magic. At the time, he had not been intrigued by such a topic. At the time, he had shunned it. Now, though, he and Harry were closer than ever, and Tom pondered if the book itself had been a premonition of some kind.

Harry was his soulmate, and they had discovered the book together. The language of this book was not quite English, not quite Latin; nothing that Tom readily recognized. But he was aware that there were other languages he did not know—some of those were languages of the magical creatures and citizens of this fantastical world.

Merpeople, for example, had their own language and alphabet. There were no classes and no translation spells for the languages of magical species, unfortunately, which meant Tom would have to seek external sources if he wished to add them to his impressive repertoire of skills.

In the meantime, Tom had set Abraxas the task of compiling a list of all known magical languages and examples of their written usage. 

The ability to communicate with other magical species would prove extremely valuable. Few wizards bothered to converse directly with magical beings they considered to be beneath them—they were bigoted enough with their own kind, after all. Tom understood just how their ignorance crippled them, and he would use this knowledge to his own advantage.

Any true Slytherin knew the value of extending an olive branch. Tom did not plan to limit himself to the confines of Hogwarts. His influence would span Britain, then further yet. For that, he would require support from all corners.

But before all that, before Tom could begin to unwind the threads that would build his future, he had to secure his foundation.

Harry had yet to achieve maturity. Though Tom was certain it would happen soon, the timeframe remained unclear. It could happen tomorrow, or it could happen months from now. Tom was concerned. If Harry did not unlock the full potential of their bond before the Easter holidays, it would ruin his plans. Tom needed Harry to be fully enamoured and dependent enough to trust him unreservedly.

All the soul magic that Tom had painstakingly researched was leading him to one inescapable conclusion. Not confirmed, only suspected, but Tom’s instinct was that this conclusion was correct. It was as he had imagined: the cost of healing his own soul would, at a minimum, require equal damage dealt to Harry’s as payment. The bond between soulmates was powerful. It linked more than souls; it linked magic, it linked _life._ Through a soulmate bond, life force could be channeled.

There were documented survivors of fatal accidents, people saved by their soulmates. Alerted by the sensation of their soulmate’s impending departure, instinct overtook them, encouraging them to send a torrent of magic and life force through to their partner. Such powerful magic was capable of saving those on the brink of death.

Tom felt confident enough in this concept to conceptualize a new plan. The specifics of it would require more work, but in general he thought that the path forward was simple.

To convince Harry to willingly offer his life and magic, Tom would need to place himself in mortal danger. Nothing truly dangerous—that was not the point of this entire ordeal. Tom would decide upon a way to trigger that primal instinct to protect, to encourage the widening of that sacred bond to make way for something greater and more glorious than any healing spells ever created.

To live, Tom would pretend to die.

It sounded easy enough when phrased like that. Tom could imagine himself ingesting a poisonous potion while its antidote sat by, ready for consumption. Harry would sense his suffering and act without thought—leaving Harry vulnerable and exposed. Ripe for the picking, as distasteful as it sounded. 

But Tom would take his time with this; a perfect solution existed, no doubt, one that would pose little to no risk to him. Time and research, the former of which was quickly dwindling in comparison to the vast amount of the latter. All his waking hours were consumed with studies and duties and research. 

It was a wonder he had any spare moments to spend on Harry. Harry was a constant, though. Content to sit in idleness in the common room while Tom went about his rounds as Head Boy. Content to work on History of Magic essays while Tom scribbled out Arithmancy notes. Content to doze against Tom’s shoulder while Tom read through textbook after textbook.

It worked well. It was comfortable.

Then on Halloween, their bond woke up.

* * *

Most nights, Tom slept like the dead. He did not dream, did not have nightmares. He slept well and woke feeling refreshed. On the rare night when he worked until the early hours of the morning, he would forgo sleep for the entire day rather than disrupt his regular schedule.

Therefore it came as a surprise when he opened his eyes in a world that was not his own.

The world that was _warm._ Or was it because he was not cold?

A breeze tickled at his hair and the loose folds of his baggy shirt. Tom stepped through a wide field of tall grass, almost gliding as he moved.

“Tom?”

Tom turned towards the voice, knowing who it would be. “Harry?” There was a giddiness building in his chest. Excitement at the normalcy of this moment—the absence of cold that felt warm to him, the pleasant sight of his soulmate’s bemused face.

Harry drew near, taking bold steps. He took Tom’s forearms into his hands, his green eyes fixated on Tom’s face. He said nothing but pursed his lips in the smallest of pouts. A gesture that did not escape Tom, who associated it with Harry’s desire to be kissed.

_This is a dream,_ Tom thought to himself. He had never dreamed like this before—either of Harry or of the sun warming his skin. But a dream as lovely as this deserved every bit of indulgence he had to offer it.

Tom dipped his head, pressed his lips to Harry’s. Inhaled the crisp air and pulled his soulmate into his arms. Harry felt real in between his hands. Their kiss was sweet like honey, but it was also faint, like the sweetness was an aftertaste. Tom deepened the kiss, tugged Harry even closer to him, and had the fleeting thought that he would like to take this Harry to bed.

In response to his errant desire, their surroundings shifted. Now they were in the Slytherin sixth-year dorm—now Tom could walk Harry backwards until their legs made contact with the bed.

Harry’s breath escaped in a needy exhale. Tom smiled, withdrawing so he could look upon Harry’s face. His memory did Harry justice: those emerald eyes, the soft curls, the delicate bone structure. Tom brushed his hand along the cheekbone, marvelling at the sensations. If all his dreams were like this from now on, he would willingly seek them out.

“Are you going to kiss me or just stand there?” Harry huffed, and Tom was certain that if this had taken place in reality, Harry’s face would have been stained a lovely shade of red.

“Is that what you want?” Tom queried, pretending to mull it over. But no, here of all places he would not be patient. He would take what he wanted, caving to the desires he repressed during the day.

Tom ran his hands over Harry’s shoulders and leant in to nuzzle at Harry’s jawline. He traced the shape of it with the tip of his nose, breathing deeply all the while, enjoying the indistinct impression of touch. Harry was tugging at Tom’s shirt, trying to work it off. 

Somehow they fell onto the bed, shirts discarded, Harry pinned underneath him. Tom mouthed kisses over all the skin he could see, pressed Harry against the mattress with his hips and his hands. Harry squirmed and panted, remarkably eager, letting Tom do whatever he pleased to his body.

But the quality of the dream was fading, their environment fuzzier by the second as Tom gripped Harry by the waist, suddenly aching for them to go even further.

“Tom,” keened Harry, twisting upwards to bury his face into Tom’s chest, “Tom, _please—”_

The words were heavenly, ringing in Tom’s ears like the gentle chime of bells. Tom wished he could stay and deliver paradise to that lovely voice, but the world was fading, fading away, and Harry’s face was rapidly losing the detail it had begun with.

_“Soon,”_ Tom promised, a deep rumble in the back of his throat that catapulted him to wakefulness.

With wakefulness came the cold. Tom trembled as his consciousness returned to reality, feeling the sheen of sweat that stuck his bedsheets to his body. What lingered was the dull throb of his arousal, a reminder of the fantasy he had indulged in only moments ago.

It was headier than usual—Tom’s head was cloudy with it, stuffed full of cotton. The pleasure of having Harry in bed with him was a warm presence in his mind, a bright light that shone into every crevice of darkness. Tom chased after the glow, the feelings of safety and home.

It felt like running a marathon at first. Tom had to push and push, exerting his focus and energy outwards. He did this without thought or decision, only an impulse to capture that beautiful radiance for himself. When he reached the end, the truth emerged, as brilliant as the clearest blue sky on a bright summer day.

Harry was waiting for him there. The golden presence of Harry’s soul, now tethered to his, now connected in the intimate way only soulmates could manage. Their hearts one, their lives entwined.

Distantly, Tom was able to see the vividness of his dream for what it was—part of the awakening of their bond. There existed a new awareness in him that was attuned to Harry. Harry, who was also awake in bed in a different dorm. Harry, who had just sent a near-incomprehensible torrent of affection surging through their bond.

Tom tore the sheets off his body and stumbled into a pair of slippers. He did not think to grab his cloak as he fled his room, his mind now focused on one all-consuming goal. No searching would be required to locate Harry—his soul knew the way. Tom trailed the stairs towards Harry’s dorm, drunk on the power that flowed in his mind, in his veins, in every atom of his body all at once.

In the short hallways outside of the fifth-year boys’ dormitory, Harry came bursting through the door, looking frazzled. His glasses crooked on his face, his hair an absolute disaster. Harry licked at his lips once, his eyes practically glazed over as he drank in the sight of Tom on the staircase.

_“Finally,”_ Tom breathed, and closed the distance, crashing their bodies together so that Harry wobbled back a step, his hands gripping Tom’s shoulders for balance.

Harry kissed him, sloppy and uncoordinated, and let out an inordinate sound of pure joy that warmed Tom to his core. And, oh, didn’t Tom feel the same way? It was jubilation that fueled every beat of his heart, a flood of euphoria that burned wherever they touched. It was molten lava that coursed through him, bringing that vibrant touch of spring to his cold, unforgiving winter.

Every emotion Tom felt was amplified, bolstered by Harry’s own overflow of elation. Their bond was strong, dizzying. Tom wanted to wade into the depths of it and drown in the sensations. There was so much to feel. So much to explore.

“I knew,” Harry mumbled into the crook of Tom’s neck, warm breath puffing in soft pants against Tom’s skin. “I knew it would be you.” His hands gripped the thin fabric of Tom’s night shirt like he was afraid Tom would vanish.

Tom had known first. On the first night in the Great Hall, the press of Harry’s hand in his had sealed their fate. In Tom’s eyes, that moment had marked the inevitability of their union. Tom had fought against this idea, against the concept of eternal love. Then he had come to accept it, however begrudgingly. And finally, he had decided to exploit it. 

Harry was his—his soulmate, his saviour. His hope for the future. 

This was what the universe owed him.

“You will always be mine,” Tom whispered in return, and the words were true. They were true, and they would remain true no matter what happened between them.

Harry held him close. There was warmth surrounding Tom on all sides, mentally and physically. It _burned,_ this heat. He was unused to it. The fleeting touches of before were nothing compared to this. 

For the first time in his life, Tom felt _feverish,_ his entire body alive and trembling. Trembling with an uncontrolled zealousness that even spread to the very tips of his fingers. Harry radiated _so much_ joy. Undiluted delight slipped into every part of Tom, filling the cracks and mending the holes. Healing the wrongness in him.

Harry mumbled happily against Tom’s face, trailing warm hands into Tom’s hair. His cheeks were flushed with pride and affection. “I can’t wait to tell my parents,” Harry whispered, lacing their hands together.

It burned so badly, yet Tom loved it. He _loved_ it—

A shudder rippled through him. Tom could not brush aside the sudden tinge of anxiety that pulled at him. The hopeless plea of a guilty conscience that he disregarded in favour of his ambitions. It was a firm standard that he set for himself, a path to achieving his goals, a strict regime of correctional thinking that he required for his own survival. The world was unkind, so he would be unkind to the world. The universe saw fit to defeat him, so instead he would thrive.

Harry made this difficult. Harry changed everything by virtue of existing, by virtue of his honesty, his empathy, his Gryffindor model of morality. With Harry, those lines Tom had carefully drawn over seventeen years of existence were washed away with the warm spring rain. With Harry, there was weakness and vulnerability—emotions that Tom had long since saw fit to discard.

With Harry, it was becoming clear to Tom that love was a disease just as deadly as the one he already had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i continue to fly by the seat of my pants. somewhat. this story does have a plot, i swear i just get derailed very easily by shiny things along the way.
> 
> at some point the nature of tom's illness will be revealed and all -hand waves- and hopefully i can do the reveal justice bc i don't feel like it's super climactic, but it is important to the plot so it must be done!!

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> find Minryll on tumblr [here](https://minryll.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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